


Always With You

by Razikale



Series: Alphas, Omegas, and Betas. Oh my! [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Double Penetration, F/F, Futanari, Girl Penis, Impregnation, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, Magic Strap-on, Masturbation, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Oral Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Ritual Sex, Smut, Threesome - F/F/F, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 73,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razikale/pseuds/Razikale
Summary: Leliana’s faith in the Maker might have been tested by the tragedy of the Conclave, but she’d never been more certain that He had a twisted sense of humor.





	1. I Will Not Forsake You

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Bioware owns everything. 
> 
> Note- A/B/O is not everyone's preference, if you don't know what it is go to this link: https://fanlore.org/wiki/Alpha/Beta/Omega  
> That said, this will not be a traditional alpha/omega story.

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_“I will not forsake you, even if I forget myself.”- Trials 1:9_

The top floor of Skyhold’s central tower managed to convey a feeling of noisome activity and secretive hush all at once. The constant flutter of wings as messenger birds came and went from the windows accompanied cries of complaint from their caged brethren.  All the sounds and voices from the floors below circled, echoed and climbed up to fill the air of the rookery, nothing but distortions that rose and fell in a cadence like the heartbeat of the entire Inquisition. Yet the din fell away, fading to the background in the face of the silence and severity that surrounded Sister Nightingale. She enfolded herself in a tangible air of secrecy, like the shadows of this dusty space, and dared the world to even think of interfering with her purpose.

That dogged, single-minded determination was what had convinced Cassandra that she could accept collaborating with Divine Justinia’s Left Hand. More than that, when Leliana’s elaborate deceits and patient traps managed to save the Most Holy’s life not just once or twice but repeatedly, the Seeker admitted that the redheaded bard might be worthy of something she granted very few people: respect. The warrior didn’t always understand her roguish ally. The woman delighted in riddles and hints, games and small smiles of the sort that contained far too many secrets. Where Cassandra was bold, Leliana demurred; when the Seeker wanted action, her counterpart counseled patience; and if the Right Hand swung a forward blow, the Left was always creeping up from behind to ensure no one escaped.

They worked well together. Cassandra allowed herself a smile as she observed the other woman, kneeling before her altar to Andraste and lost in quiet prayer. She never kept her hood on when speaking to heaven. There was nothing that could be hidden from the eyes of the Maker, so she said, least of all beneath a cowl. Even with open windows for the ravens to fly back and forth, there was scant light here in the rookery. A few, scattered braziers supplied a constant dull glow, and the spymaster’s hair picked up each lick and bloom of warm color, edging her face in fire.

“You sound serious, Cassandra.” Leliana didn’t open her eyes, didn’t give even the slightest incline of her head. No wonder people thought the Inquisition’s spymaster had supernatural powers.

“I have not spoken,” the Seeker pointed out. The bard’s greeting signaled the end of her prayers and Cassandra approached, faithfully bowing her head before the statue of the Lady of Sorrows.

“You hardly ever speak,” Sister Nightingale looked up at her now, blue eyes bright and intense as ever. Perhaps more than ever. A hint of a smile turned the edge of Leliana’s lips as she continued in her lilting Orlesian tone. “I have learned to read your silences.”

Cassandra felt an echo of that expression tug at her own mouth. If it were anyone else she would ignore the comment, perhaps even rebuke such a show of familiarity. With Leliana, however, she simply knew that it was true. Somewhere in the tangle of mutual respect and trust that had developed between them, in the fires of battle for the Divine and a holy war for the Chantry itself, a bond had been forged. They had become friends. Such friends as could often speak without needing actual words. The kind that were allowed to bring up facts and concerns that no one else dared to voice. They could argue without being offended, listen without feeling chastised and always trust that they both had each other’s best interests at heart.

 _Maker, please let her remember that._ The Seeker subtly took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation that had to happen. That breath was a mistake. Cassandra immediately felt her throat tighten, a prickle of sweat starting to itch all along her skin. The air of the rookery was chilly with the constant flow of air, fighting gusts of heat that climbed up from the hold below; but the Nevarran was certain that war of temperatures had nothing to do with the feverish sensation creeping through her body now.

“It is not your customary time for prayer,” Cassandra nodded to the figure of Andraste. She needed to buy a few extra minutes to put her thoughts back in order. “Has something caused you distress?”

“Distress?” Leliana shaped the word over her tongue like she was savoring an Orlesian delicacy. “We have taken refuge at the top of the world while Thedas falls to demons and red lyrium madness. An ancient evil spreads across our land and has usurped minds and nations.” The redhead rose to her feet, a bitter scowl creasing her features. “Our only salvation is a woman that even the generous would call ‘impulsive,’ and were it not for her charms and Maker-blessed fortune, we would not have any support at all in trying to do the impossible.”

“So the world is falling to fire and death. That is not new to either of us.” The Seeker watched as her friend moved back to her work table, eyeing the mountain of papers that demanded attention like a dragon just stirring from sleep. “Granted, the Inquisitor is not what we might have expected,” Cassandra paused, still adapting to the feel of that title in her mouth, particularly when it accompanied the image of a particularly rash and irreverent noblewoman. “But she has proven to be more than we could have hoped.”

“She did well at Halamshiral,” Leliana agreed, heaving a sigh of relief like surrender.

It had been her idea all along to foster, protect and even push the reluctant aristocrat from Ostwick into the center of attention, to make her the beacon of hope and power that could unite terrified people to a common cause. They needed a leader and they forged one from the raw material of the Conclave’s sole survivor. None of them imagined that she would end up being that and so much more.

“Who would have thought that she dances as well as she fights?” Cassandra, more than anyone, had been caught unawares by Elyn.

 The Seeker really hadn’t known what to make of her at first. She laughed when she was supposed to be listening, told jokes to the people who threatened her life, ignored anyone that questioned her authority, and let her temper slip into her tone like the sound of a sword being unsheathed when her allies were at stake. She was reckless and nonchalant, honest but guarded, passionate without losing control, stubborn, kind, dissolute, and utterly, indescribably—

“Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you?” Leliana’s sly smile turned the question into fact.

—frustrating. The Seeker felt heat bloom in her cheeks, different than the warmth that was forming beads of perspiration along her collar. An ant could not begin digging its home anywhere in southern Thedas without Sister Nightingale knowing about it; it was foolish to think that those few stolen minutes she and the Inquisitor had shared on the balcony of the summer palace would go unnoticed.

“She insisted.” Cassandra hated the grumble in her voice that echoed a surly child caught with stolen sweets. Why did it bother her? Why did it even matter? It was a dance. Or two. Perhaps three, come to think of it. She couldn’t clearly remember because—unlike other partners she’d endured dancing with—Trevelyan seamlessly moved with each change of music, never once allowing the Seeker to notice that one song had ended and another begun.

“She can be quite persistent, no? I’m glad, Cassandra,” the redhead’s voice was warm, lilting with laughter and affection. “It is good that _someone_ can make you enjoy yourself from time to time. You know what Orlesians say about good dancers, don’t you?” Leliana leaned closer, lashes fluttering low and her lips parted like the prelude to a kiss.

“I do not care to imagine.” The Seeker immediately held up a silencing hand. It would undoubtedly be something about sex. That was all any Orlesian saying was about. They could be discussing weather, politics, and disgusting cheeses and it would _still_ mean sex. And that was the last thing Cassandra needed to be thinking of right now. Not when simply talking about the woman had already made her heart pick up an extra beat and the warmth seeping into her blood was making her thoughts crack and slip away. Damn Trevelyan and damn Leliana. This wasn’t why she came up here.

“They simply say no dancer is better than the partner they choose. Really, did you think it was something scandalous?” The spymaster feigned innocence, tsking as though the very idea was shocking.

“You are trying to distract me, Leliana.” Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose, reciting the books of the Chant in her mind until her head cleared. Then she fixed her eyes on the former Left Hand once again, determined that she’d not be put off. “Your mating cycle is beginning. Did you expect no one to notice?”

“It is hardly the first time.” The laughter and smile left Leliana’s expression, lips showing the first sign of impatience in a frown.  She turned her attention to the papers strewn across her work table, a subtle hint that she was already done with the conversation.

“True, but this is a new and uncertain setting. The Inquisition has attracted people of all races and breeds. There are many other omegas that might be affected by your fever. Not to mention the number of alphas now at Skyhold.” Seeker Pentaghast was, above all else, a realistic woman. She never let her faith make her gullible, nor her hopes blind her to danger. She was romantic, that did not mean she had to be impractical.

“They mean nothing,” Leliana’s answer was swift and sharp, like the daggers nestled in the secret places of her armor. “I have a mate, Cassandra. By the Maker’s grace I will be with her again soon but, until then, my heats matter little and they certainly will not dictate my life.”

“I know,” the Seeker gentled her voice, aware of the almost sacred sound that enfolded any mention of the omega’s absent lover. The Hero of Ferelden had been gone for many years now. For as long as Cassandra had known Leliana, in fact, the two had been apart. It was true that a claimed omega did not suffer so intensely during their heats, but the effect could still be widespread and—in a tumultuous environment such as this?—catastrophic.

No one was immune. That was surely proven by the way the Nevarran’s tongue wrapped so rough and sluggish around her next words. “That does not make you impervious to the fever, or its dangers. The Inquisitor is concerned. She suggested that perhaps you might prefer a safer location for a few days. Or even a hiatus from your duties, just until the worst has passed.”

“Ah, the Inquisitor is concerned,” Leliana repeated the phrase, rolling it around in her mouth. There was a dark glint in her eyes that made for a disturbing echo of her smile. “Perhaps she is worried that she will not be able to control herself? Restraint has not proven to be one of her strengths.” The spymaster edged towards her ally in slow, calculated steps. “Or is she afraid that I will be overcome? Our Inquisitor _is_ an alpha of formidable power and quite attractive. It is possible that after so many years I might be tempted to sate my heat with another, non?”

“Leliana.” Cassandra could feel a growl building in the back of her throat and swallowed it down. She knew the redhead well enough to understand the game she was playing. It might be aggravating and even offensive, but it was all part of a battle that couldn’t be won simply by argument or force. The rogue knew precisely how uncomfortable the whole subject made her friend and she was counting on the Seeker losing her temper to give her control of the conversation.

“The peace of the Inquisition, the smooth workings of the war counsel, even the reputation of our holy leader might all be at stake.” There was an innocence in those sapphire blue eyes that was completely undone by the glistening coral of Leliana’s wetted lips turning up into a smile. She slid into the Seeker’s space, close enough to feel the warmth that radiated through her armor. “Perhaps it would be for the best if I act first?” The purr in that Orlesian accent would cost coin in any brothel. “I could ease the mating fever with someone else. Someone I trust, who knows what to do. Someone who truly understands the full potential of the right hand in a time of need.”

“Very funny. Are you quite done?” Cassandra arched one weary brow at her friend, an eloquent reproach. She didn’t miss the playful twist on her title, but she was far too experienced with the redhead’s games to be affected anymore. The most Leliana could do was add to the color in her cheeks, and they were already fire red from the heat suffusing her blood and the constant, gnawing hints of Elyn that kept slipping without welcome into her thoughts.

“Ah, you do not change, no?” Leliana laughed, folding all her seductive charms away and returning to a respectful distance.

“Neither do you,” the Seeker sighed, shaking her head. “This is not a time for levity, Leliana. We each have our role to play, and the Inquisition would be crippled without your eyes and ears.”

“Then let us be grateful that a mating cycle affects neither one. Nor will it compromise my ability to serve.” While her lips were still curled into a soft, amused smile, there was an edge of sharpened metal glittering in the spymaster’s eyes. The same tendrils of iron and threat whispered beneath her words.  She fixed her gaze firmly on Cassandra, unwavering, absolute in the conviction that her entire body could shatter and fall into the Void and she would still not yield an inch. “I gave myself to my chosen years ago. I do not, _will_ not, want any other.”

“Very well,” the Seeker nodded, accepting the determination in that tone. Seven years they had known each other. She’d never once doubted that Leliana’s love for the Hero was the stuff of song and legend.  It was the sort of romance that could be put in a painting or on a page and revered for generations to come. “But forgive me if I pray, for all our sakes, that your want for her doesn’t bring harm.”

A faint incline of the spymaster’s head was the only acknowledgment of the parting words. It was hardly a satisfactory conclusion to the matter, but Cassandra knew she could push no further. She descended from the rookery, every step down the massive staircase letting her breathe a bit easier, cooling the temperature of her blood and clearing her mind.  By the time her boots hit the stone floors of the throne room, the Seeker felt like herself once more.

 A burst of melodic laughter erupted from the corner near the fire place and hit Cassandra like a spike driven into the base of her spine. Elyn and Varric were clearly wrapped up in one of their usual exchanges of unbelievable stories. Her gaze drifted to them, momentarily lingering to appreciate the easy poise of the Inquisitor, the graceful lines of her stance that bespoke both comfort and confidence. She did not seem brazenly cocksure like other alphas, but radiated a quiet calm devoid of arrogance.

The two must have felt Cassandra’s scrutiny because their attention turned from each other to note the warrior passing by. The Seeker wasn’t sure which disturbed her more: the playful wink tossed her way by the insufferable dwarf, or the genuine smile that lit the Inquisitor’s face when her eyes caught Cassandra. Smirk, sneer, scowl or grin; none of Elyn’s expressions unsettled the Nevarran like that simple curl of her lips that let the rest of the world vanish for the space of a few heartbeats.

 _Maker curse omegas._ The Seeker set her own lips into a thin line, brow twisting in irritation as she marched out of the throne room without a pause. The rush of warmth in her cheeks had to be the residual effect of being near Leliana. The Nevarran warrior was certain of it. The leather of her gloves creaked as she clenched her fists, determined to ignore the heat in her blood and the way it threatened to spread lower still. The training dummies were about to get absolutely, mercilessly, irreparably destroyed.

 _And curse that impossible woman as well._ It didn’t go unnoticed by a tiny, traitorous instinct beneath Cassandra’s vexation that she couldn’t summon quite as much venom for that final thought.

 

 

 


	2. The Cadence of My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note:  
> This story bounces back and forth between Inquisition and Origins. Make sure to check the place/time headers at the beginning of each chapter to know if it's a flashback.

**Ferelden, 9:31 Dragon**

_“You composed the cadence of my heart.” – Trials 1:11_

Two years.

The brief, darting fact was a fraction of thought across Leliana’s mind just before everything dissolved. Liquid fire coursed through her veins, the wave of bliss spilling free with a long, sweet note she barely felt on her tongue. Her breath returned in ragged gasps, punctuating each stroke of the fingers gently helping her body surf a tide of aftershocks.  The bard’s mouth felt like she’d chewed on rashvine; numb but stinging from the cries that had been dragged past her lips. The soft press of her lover’s mouth was an instant, soothing balm and she drank it in. Tangy sharpness, honeyed spice, notes of wet earth and the faintest trace of something floral danced with her tongue. The lingering flavors of each other mingled in their kiss, shared over and over through the night until she couldn’t taste the difference anymore.

“I love that.” Leliana didn’t hear but felt the words whispered against her lips. The other woman’s voice was cracked, low and raspy from the wear of their exertions and the sounds she had surrendered. Still there was a caress in it, like dark wine and smooth silk. Her own mouth was too thick and slow to shape speech, managing only a vague hum of question as kisses traveled across her cheek.

 “I love how you sound, Leliana, how you feel,” the purring wonder matched a subtle twist from the fingers still deep within her, savoring the velvety heat that clung to the pleasure of being filled.  “How you look.” The Warden drew back, just enough to gaze down and watch as the bard’s heavy lashes fluttered open. “I love all of it. All of you.”

The smile that greeted her, the warmth of bottomless affection reaching out to swallow her whole; Leliana’s breath caught in her throat, tangling on a ball of emotion that threatened to become a sob.

“Maker, Neria,” she sighed, suddenly at a loss for any of the lyrical, romantic words that she had wielded her whole life. She was speechless, yet the elven mage understood what she couldn’t say.

Surana slowly drew out of her lover, eyes apologizing at Leliana’s groan of complaint, and gathered the bard closer against herself. She shifted them until they could lie facing each other, wrapped tightly together. The redhead instinctively turned her face into the mage’s neck. Leliana could feel Neria’s heart beating slowly against her own, calming her racing pulse to match the languid, sated rhythm. Hands glided over her back, occasionally humming with magic to warm her when the cool night air raised goosebumps on sweat-dampened skin. The scent and taste and heat of the elf wove across her senses, filled her with a peace that the Maker Himself couldn’t provide.

Two years since she had been touched. Had been held. Loved. Her arms were trembling and clumsy but still strong as Leliana clung all the more tightly to her Warden. _My Warden._ The shudder that raced through her confessed itself in a shaking breath. _My love._ She couldn’t have imagined such a miracle. Wouldn’t have dared to pray . . .

Nothing in her life could have prepared her for this. She had known love only in its thinnest, most slippery form; the affection that was as high and bright as stars one moment, and crushing with despair the next. It had been all-consuming, nearly a madness; and always, behind every kiss and sweet word, the constant tremor of uncertainty. That shadow of fear had made her heart skip beats, and she— _foolishly—_ had thought it to be excitement; thought the shivers were nothing but anticipation for any and every way she might please her beloved.

Marjolaine had never loved her. Leliana knew that now. Not just from the trap and betrayal years before, or seeing her a few days ago and being stunned by the cruelty of a face that harbored no shred of wistful feeling, no trace of the bond the younger woman had thought they shared. No. Leliana felt a prickle at the edge of her eyes, tears that had nothing to do with pain. She knew Marjolaine hadn’t loved her from the first time the Warden pulled her into an embrace. The overwhelming warmth and comfort of real affection enfolded her completely. Neria offered her not just strength and protection, but trust, tenderness, even a sense of vulnerability. In this woman’s arms she felt the complete confession and echo of everything they shared; all the emotions, promises and words turned into simple, solid fact.

“Something’s wrong,” Neria’s tone filled with concern, a hand reaching up to brush Leliana’s cheek, wiping away a tear that the bard didn’t realize had escaped.  The mage tilted close to her ear, voice dropping to plead, “What is it? Tell me.”

“Nothing.” The redhead felt her lover stiffen and couldn’t resist a small bubble of laughter that rose from her chest. Maker save us all from such answers, even when they’re the truth! “Nothing is wrong, Neria,” she assured and pressed her lips to the tender skin behind Surana’s jaw, feeling a soft ripple of pleasure ease the woman’s tension. “I am with you. That makes everything right.”

Despite everything—past crimes, her betrayal and tortures, leaving the cloister, confronting Marjolaine, the blight and darkspawn and dragons—Leliana knew she would not change any of it. That dark and dangerous road was what led her here. She would suffer it all over again, every sin and mistake, so long as it meant finding her love once more.

“Remember that tomorrow when Morrigan and Wynne scold us for being noisy,” Surana teased, slipping back to total relaxation. Her fingers absently combed through mussed strands of red hair.

“Mmm,” Leliana’s chuckle was closer to a purr, the sound humming happily in her throat. “And Zevran and Oghren complain that we were not loud enough.”

“Maker. I’m not sure which is worse,” Neria groaned but there was too much of a smile in her voice to actually be annoyed. “And here I thought a Circle was the least romantic setting in all Thedas.”

“Ah, I had forgotten your secret, tender side. You wish for roses and dancing, no?” Despite her playful tone, the bard’s jaw clenched ever so slightly.

Of course she’d suspected that Surana had taken lovers before. Her touches this night— _bless Andraste and thank the Maker_ —confirmed as much. But Leliana hadn’t allowed herself to linger long on the questions of When, Who or How Many? After all, it would be hypocritical, would it not? Given that she herself had frequently seduced for nothing but sport or pleasure. Yet the irritating suspicions niggled at her, much like the small rocks she could feel through the bedroll. Surana must have mastered her flirtations and skills at Calenhad Tower. Was her experience the fumbled groping of rushed secrecy, or languid, elaborate love affairs? Had the first person she touched been special? Had anyone?

A low vibration broke Leliana’s thoughts, shocked to realize it was coming from within herself. The growl didn’t break past her throat, but Neria had to have felt it as well, instinctively finding her lips until the softness and attention soothed away her concerns. Whoever the elf had kissed before, the redhead quietly promised, she was _hers_ now. A thrill ran down Leliana’s spine, fingers curling greedily into skin that was still slick and warm from shared exertions.

“I can’t dance,” Surana’s gasp broke them apart, ending the kiss before it sparked fires that their bodies couldn’t possibly endure again. “But when this blight is ended I am going to find us some privacy. And a proper bed.”

“I know of a place.” Leliana felt her mouth turn upward into a smile, wicked as the thoughts darting through her mind. She nipped at Neria’s lower lip, catching the hitch in her breath before moving down her jaw. “Quiet and secluded. With a lovely fireplace and wide windows that open over the sea. The owner gets excellent wine and is very,” she punctuated her words with kisses, traveling down the slender line of the mage’s throat. “Very discreet. And, best of all,” her lips found the flutter of her lover’s pulse, following it to where neck curved to shoulder and every breath made that rapid heartrate speed. “The sort of bed that queens and Divines would weep to lie upon. Wide and deep; all feathers and silk.”

“Yes, perfect,” Neria sighed, meaning either the promise of that decadent mattress or the way Leliana’s plush mouth suckled the tender place on her shoulder. Her fingers twitched in the tangle of the bard’s hair, trying not to clench into a fist, to force an end to this teasing game.

“We will go there, yes?” Leliana smiled at the tremors racing beneath her lover’s skin as she struggled to hold still beneath the caresses. “After you have finished being wonderful for everyone else, I will whisk you away for only myself. To that place. And we will do nothing but ravish each other for days.”

“ _Maker_ , Leli,” Neria hissed at the sudden scrape of teeth that finished Leliana’s assault.

 The redhead leaned back to survey her work. In the shadows it was difficult to see but she could just make out the beginnings of color mottling the flesh, filling into the shape of her mouth. There would be a mark. From her lips. A swell of pride bloomed in her lungs. It wasn’t made with teeth and blood, but Neria would wear her claim.

 The mage was just as pleased, her hands guiding Leliana to rest back in the crook of her shoulder, pressing feather-light kisses to the top of her hair. A purring contentment filled the redhead’s chest as she nestled into the familiar warmth and scent of her chosen. They might not be able to seal their bond tonight, or tomorrow, or even for weeks to come; but the fullness in her heart beat in perfect time with her lover’s. A promise it had already begun.

“Leliana?” Neria’s voice was heavy with fatigue, a last sleepy thought barely making its way to her tongue.

“Mmm?” The bard was no better.

The entire night was catching up to them. Holy Ashes, all the _weeks_ before seemed to have come crashing down at once. All the waiting, the frustration and patience, the flirting, hesitations, uncertainty, and always the want; _so_ much want! It felt as if they had tried to slake a desert of thirst in a single night and she was just now starting to taste the exhaustion that would turn into pain come the morning. It was worth it.

“When is your next heat?” Even as weary and slow as the mage’s voice had become, it made Leliana smile. Her forced nonchalance did nothing to hide the trace of eagerness underneath.

“Before Firstfall. Six weeks perhaps.” Not that there was any guarantee. It could be as much as two months or as little as one. The timing would depend entirely on Neria’s effect. A mate, even unclaimed, provoked the most visceral response a body would ever experience. Instinct knew nothing of patience.

The mage was silent for a time. She had gone still and Leliana wondered if perhaps she hadn’t fallen asleep. The bard resolved to do the same but a gust of breath held her awake a few more seconds. Neria’s exhalation had been too short and forceful for a sigh, closer to the sound she made right before a decision.

“Nothing for it then," the Warden's tone echoed the willful but calm touch of her hands. “We’ll have to sort out this whole damned mess before then.”

 


	3. My Every Step

**The Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Your name is etched into my every step – Trials 1:9_

With a flash of irritation Leliana realized she’d let her mind wander again.  She grounded herself in the present, pushing aside the memories that grew dangerously real at this time of year. A mating cycle was never easy and hardly what anyone would call convenient, but her autumn fever was always so much worse than in spring. Even at the frozen peak of a mountain the smell in the air was different. Winter’s approach was the barest kiss on each wind and all the fires were stoked hotter, bigger, filling Skyhold with crackling warmth and a soothing glow that reminded her far too much of nights in camp. So much like that night had been; just chilly enough to make goosebumps spread across cooling bodies, to make them happily stay close and share warmth beneath the blankets. The heavy scent of storms and rain was so close to the fragrance of Neria’s skin when they fell asleep tangled together. 

_When we did finally sleep._ Leliana’s cheek twitched, fighting the curl of a smile. Maker, not again! The spymaster scolded herself, dragging her attention back to the agent before her and forcing herself to focus on the actual business at hand. Saving the world. As usual.

Charter was one of her best spies. If she could not keep her thoughts from drifting the elf would undoubtedly notice. There was already a hint of a question in the tilt of the woman’s head, studying her master as if she could not place a crucial change. Leliana thanked Holy Andraste for the shroud of her cowl. The shadows it cast on her face could mask any hint of the heat blooming under her skin, the first telltale flush coloring her cheeks.  Small beads of perspiration were beginning to prickle along her hair, promising that in a few hours her entire body would be covered in a damp sheen.

“The Champion has made contact with her Grey Warden associate. They’re in a smuggler’s cave to the south. I have not been able to get close enough to find out the identity of her ally,” Charter finally wound up her full report.

“You have found secret paths into the bedrooms of clerics and kings. A cave should be nothing, no?” Leliana knew the elf couldn’t see her eyebrow quirk up, but the teasing lilt in her voice would surely be enough to soften the question.

“The cave is not the problem, Sister Nightingale, Hawke is.” Charter’s mouth turned into a distasteful scowl. She never took kindly to failure. “Each time I try to find entry she seems to know when and where my shadow is about to appear. I have listened all night to the noise of drinking and laughter and before dawn she _still_ has her weapons ready the second she catches the sound of my breath.”

“She has mastered the art of staying hidden,” Leliana acknowledged, as much to herself as to soothe her agent’s frustration. She’d been impressed with the Champion’s ability to vanish without a trace. Clearly, a life of fighting demons, blood mages and crazy templars had equipped the woman not only with excellent instincts and reflexes, but a healthy dose of rampant paranoia. “Leave one of your men nearby to keep watch, perhaps they will wander out of the cave at some point and we will catch a glimpse of this mysterious warden.”

From the moment the Inquisitor called her war council together and told them of Hawke’s report an aching pit had opened up in Leliana’s chest, heart stuttering at any mention of the Grey Wardens. She counseled herself, time and again, to keep her emotions at bay. All of their order in the south of Thedas had vanished, but Surana had left long before. Surely her quest to find an end for the Calling kept her far away. She couldn’t be caught up in any of this. The redhead could barely force air into her lungs as she struggled to keep control of her thoughts. If it came down to a choice between the future of Thedas or her mate? Her knuckles turned white as she clenched the edge of the table, waiting for the rush of nausea to pass.

“I’ll assign Butcher. He’s my best right now.” A subtle tone of bitterness slipped into Charter’s words, the regret of too many useful people and valued friends already lost. Who didn’t have that taste of ash on their tongue these days?

“Very well. You will return to Crestwood village. There is something suspicious about their panic. Terror of the unknown is very different from the fear of secrets. I would like to know what it is that has them barring their doors and fleeing our aid.” Leliana had seen enough small, sleepy villages full of bloody history to sense when people were banding together out of fear for survival, and when they were united in the silence of shared guilt.

She unfurled a map and began marking the homes most likely to contain keys to this mystery, comparing notes on what they knew so far of each inhabitant. Charter leaned over the table, occasionally tapping the locations they hadn’t been able to reach as yet, or pointing out the places where there was obvious danger.  Bandits had taken the fortress, naturally. Was there any tragedy that criminals could not turn to their advantage? The spymaster sighed. Much as she might pray for the Maker’s return, these days she wholly understood why He had left His creation.

The meeting had settled into such a smooth, familiar rhythm that Leliana was caught off guard when Charter happened to scratch her ear. It was a simple gesture, not even a nervous twitch or tell, just the sign of an itch. But it drew the redhead’s eyes and when she fixed on the distinctive, pointed shape the past rose in her thoughts and warred for control once more. Were all elven ears as sensitive as Neria’s?  She could vividly recall the blush that painted her Warden’s cheeks the first time she brushed the sharp tips. There had been a selfish swell of pride in feeling the shivers that raced through her lover’s body when she whispered into that delicate shell. Then the choked breath, Maker, the absolutely shameless gasps that built into a moan as she explored the edges first with her lips, then tongue and teeth.

_“Not—oh, shit.” Surana writhed beneath her, twisting to escape but also draw closer all at once. “Not fair, Leliana.”_

_“When has that ever stopped either of us?” The teasing words rolled so easily off her tongue, giggling softly into the ear that had thoroughly captivated her attentions._

“Sister?” Charter noticed her odd silence. A line of worry appeared between her brows, seeing the almost pained expression on the spymaster’s face.

“That is all,” Leliana brusquely ended the discussion, rolling the map back up and handing it to her agent.

 The elf paused, torn between the twin loyalties of obedience and concern. They had worked together for long enough now that some of the boundaries had begun to blur, trust and respect turning into a regard that was dangerously close to friendship. Such a bond could be both powerful motive and deadly vulnerability. The spy’s eyes darted over Leliana’s face and, finding nothing but the steely armor that held any hint of emotion in check, she nodded and left without a word. Light of foot, swift in shadows and blessed with a nearly supernatural gift for stealth, Leliana was quite certain that Charter would slip away from Skyhold without anyone ever knowing she’d come in the first place.

It was only the first day. The omega dropped heavily onto the rickety stool nearest her worktable. Was stress wearing on her control? Had mention of danger amongst the Grey Wardens excited some dormant instinct that brought Neria to life so much more vividly in her thoughts? For seven years she had weathered her breeding cycle without the relief of her mate, without the comfort of another’s touch. She had even grown accustomed to the ghostly sensations that crept over her skin like a constant reminder of what she was missing, the echoes of her Warden almost reassuring as they slipped into the cracks of her mind.

Sense and memory are as inseparably twined as an Orlesian debutante’s braids, and everywhere Leliana looked in the dim, cold rookery she found that beguiling woman. The smell from a pitcher of thin wine conjured the taste of their first kiss, the essence of sweet fruit and sharp spice filling her mouth. The omega grabbed a rolled report, breaking the seal and forcing her eyes to rest on every single word as she willed herself to concentrate. Halamshiral. Mercenary leader. Full confession and indictment of Grand Duke Gaspard. The flicker of burning candles lighting the page turned into the glow of fire on skin, painted it in irresistible colors of shadow and gold as Leliana’s gaze and touch roved each newly exposed inch, memorizing the warmth and shape of that lithe body spread willingly beneath her touch.

Her angry mutter was nearly a curse as the edges of the letter wrinkled in her hands. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, searching inside herself for the calm well of discipline that had stayed her temper and kept her hand steady in far worse times. She had years of practice at mastering herself. When she opened her eyes and reached for a quill, even the trembling that ran through her muscles like electrical shivers was forced to still. She would not allow a single word of her reply to be smudged. It was the same rigid control that ensured she could hit the very smallest of targets with her dagger, hands always sure no matter how the rest of her may shake.

In the late night shadows Leliana felt safe shrugging off her cowl, taking in a deep breath of the cool air that immediately washed over her fevered skin. Her chainmail armor—usually a source of comfort and security—felt heavy, stifling. Still, she knew such irritations were nothing compared to the pain that would come. In another day, two at most, her skin would be so sensitive that the lightest touch of silk would feel like the rasp of a whetstone. Even that torture, however, wasn’t the worst part of her heat. Physical pain she could manage. Being caught and interrogated as a treasonous spy had taught her that the mind and body did not have to stay connected. She could send herself away from sharp hunger pangs, desperate thirst, injured bones and stinging flesh. What she couldn’t flee was the ache in her heart, the inevitable drift of her thoughts towards memories that were so sweet she would’ve preferred agony. Torture had not made her weep. But happiness could.

The only solace was duty. The mission that had torn them in separate directions could not be left to ruin now. Not when they had both sacrificed so much. Neria had dashingly claimed that her only reason to cure the Calling was to ensure their future together. If Leliana recalled correctly (and she did, everything about the Warden was seared into her memory) there had been playful mention of wanting to grow old listening to the bard sing lullabies to a passel of snotty grandchildren. She’d been quite adamant about the snotty part. Joke as she may, Surana was trying to save not just her own future but that of her entire order. The Grey Wardens needed hope. Despite being conscripted, tainted and sentenced to death, the Wardens needed to feel a part of the world that they were doomed to save.

They needed a world worth saving, as well. Leliana rested her chin on folded hands, the posture almost of prayer, but with her thoughts anchored solidly to earth. The Chantry had gone so far awry over its generations of rule. Dorothea wanted to make it right. That proved to be an impossible task for one woman in a single lifetime so she determined that she could at least make it better. And that Revered Mother had asked for Leliana’s help. How could she refuse?

Vigilance, precision, eyes and thoughts that could outmaneuver the enemy, a spider’s web of favors, blackmail, bribery and gratitude that ensured allies in all the right places; these were a bard’s weapons and she honed her craft to perfection in service to the Maker and His chosen. But always, in the back of her mind, was a selfish seed of hope. She wanted peace for when Neria returned. Leliana ached with the desire for that final relief when she was reunited with her mate, secure in the promise that they were done, that the affairs of the world would never have to part them again.

_We have lost so much_. The spymaster couldn’t deny the sadness that crept over her at that thought, sharp and swift, but it didn’t have the dull pain of regret. _And now there’s even more._ Divine. The College of Clerics had nominated her for Divine. Along with Vivienne and Cassandra, but what little she’d gathered from the gossip and her conversations with the Inquisitor didn’t bode well for either of the other women. The thought made her stomach sink but also set her heart racing. She could be the next leader of the Chantry. What in the Maker’s Holy Name would Neria say to that? 

With a small smile, Leliana felt the answer creep into her mind on a whisper of memory. This time she let the past enfold her without a resisting.

_“You remember when you asked if I had taken vows?” The redhead kept her attention on Surana but only from the corner of her eye._

_“When I found out I actually had a chance of seeing you naked? How could I forget?” The elf’s gaze remained straight ahead, alert for traps and dangers on the road. Still, there was an undeniable twist of amusement to her lips._

_“Yes, very clever.” Leliana’s eye rolled up briefly, trying to feign irritation despite the laughter she could feel in her words. “What would you have said if I was affirmed? If you did not have this ‘chance,’ as you so charmingly call it?”_

_“Probably hidden near the river to catch a glimpse of you bathing.” The answer was offered with such speed and candor that the bard didn’t have time to control her face. Her jaw dropped in shock. If not for years of training her coordination under the most stressful of circumstances, she certainly would’ve stumbled.  She only regained her composure when the mage fell into a delighted fit of laughter._

_“You are terrible!” Leliana felt a rush of heat color her cheeks, less from the comment and more from being caught unawares._

_“That isn’t what you said last night.” Neria’s wolfish grin proved how much she was enjoying her lover’s flustered discomposure. The redhead was rapidly sifting her thoughts for a fitting reply when tapered fingers caught her own and twined their hands together. She turned to fully look at the elf then, relieved to find huge eyes fixed on her with a matching tenderness. “If it was forbidden to touch you, I wouldn’t touch. Tell me no and I will always listen. I would accept being barred from even the brush of your fingertips, so long as I can still be part of your life.”_

_“That,” Leliana licked her lips, fighting a fierce urge to grab the mage’s collar and drag her into the closest thicket to relish all the skills of fingertips in the right place. “Is a very good answer.”_

_“You think I didn’t work that out before I even dared to ask the question?” Neria chuckled then, surrendering her hold on the bard’s hand in order wrap around her waist instead, drawing their bodies closer together as they walked. “I practiced it several times. You are beautiful, Leliana, and I’m selfish enough to want all of you. But we mages know just how insubstantial and changing the physical parts of this world can be. Your heart and mind are what make you irresistible.”_

_“Almost as much as your tongue has enchanted me, no?” The redhead smiled, slipping an arm around the elf’s shoulders and leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek._

_“Now_ that _sounds like what you were saying last night.” Surana’s fingers gave a playful poke to her lover’s ribs. Leliana shouldn’t even have felt the gesture through her armor, but a tiny spark of lightning burst on her skin and pulled a startled laugh from her throat._

_“If you two are quite done being nauseating?” Morrigan’s icy voice managed to combine the apathy of utter disdain with irritated notes of scorn. The sound perfectly matched that hint of sneer always curling her lip as if something terribly disgusting were trying to hug her._

_“Oh, but we haven’t even gotten to the revolting pet-name stage.” The Warden’s eyes suddenly brightened with creative malice. “I have all kinds of ideas too. Sugar-lips. Nug Nose. Smoochiekins.” There was an absolutely unholy glee in the way Neria savored the apostate’s groan of disgust._

_“I refuse to be called any of those,” Leliana shook her head, utterly adamant. There were many endearments that might fall freely from her lips, particularly when the elf’s tongue was—never mind—but she still had a bard’s pride in word craft and eloquence. Orlesian was a much better language for love all around._

_“Oh fine, I’ll use them for Alistair then,” the Warden surrendered with a pouting sigh. The expression didn’t last long when, from ahead of them, Alistair’s confused voice rang out in protest over their shared laughter._

The spymaster rose from her worktable, a sudden wave of indescribable fatigue washing over her senses. There was a small storage room off to one side of the rookery; barely enough to hold a bed and washbasin, but it was enough. Never one to waste time, Leliana seldom availed herself of rest these days. A bedroll nestled near the cages of her feathered agents was often all she needed for a few minutes or perhaps an hour here and there to replenish her stamina and return to duties. Tonight, however, as her body staged its rebellion, the demand for sleep weighed heavy on her eyes and she made her way to the private room.

Ever mindful of the value of secrets, she turned the lock on the closed door before stripping away the layers of her armor and clothes. She noted absently that the fabric was damp from her skin, and there was no advantage in pondering the markedly soaked portion of her breeches. The smell alone was enough to know the cause, filling the small chamber with the cloying aroma of heat and lust. That would get worse too. Leliana sighed, tossing the clothing aside and stretching out on the thin, scratchy blankets of her bedding. By the time her fever was at its worst, she’d likely have the fragrance of a brothel at dawn.

The cool night air was a welcome relief on her naked skin, despite the shivers that followed each breeze as it gusted over the sheen of drying perspiration. She curled to one side, instinctively shifting into the exact place she would lay if another body was beside her, wrapped around her, cradling her in a protective embrace until they might both drift to sleep. The weakness of fatigue, the scent of her heat, the need to be bare; these weren’t the reasons Leliana locked the door. She barred the world because she knew that during her fever, in her sleep, dreams could become weapons.


	4. Guide Me

**Ferelden, 9:31 Dragon**

_Guide me through the blackest nights. –Transfigurations 10_

The Warden had tattoos. Not the facial markings of the vallaslin that Leliana was used to seeing on Dalish elves. Neria didn’t have those. No, hers were smaller; colorful embellishments easily hidden by a mage’s Circle robes. They had been a complete surprise to the bard and she delighted in tracing each one, noting how they differed and revealed varied tastes. She had no trouble deciphering the artwork, but the meanings were buried deeper; those had to be teased out in questioning touches or quiet conversation as they lay tangled together resisting sleep.

Tribal designs paid tribute to the primitive parts of the elf’s nature, while the symbols for different types of magic marked milestones of her progress as a mage. There were coded reminders of friends from the past: departed to other Circles, lost to demons, or cursed in Tranquility. A drawing of a small knife hidden behind the Warden’s ear made Leliana laugh when she found it, a cheeky mock towards the bigoted world. The Templar crest on the bottom of her heel, however, seethed hatred. 

Then there were the pieces of color that had no significance. Delicate flourishes, flowing lines, splashes of color meant to do nothing more than lure fingers and lips to brush the most sensitive places; like a map to the mage’s pleasure. These were Leliana’s favorite, not just for the minute twitches and soft sighs she could tease from Neria by grazing them with her touch, but for the lyrium-laced ink that hummed with magic. The redhead smiled as she slid her hands up her lover’s inner thighs, watching the designs change shade, feeling the heat of them flaring to life beneath her palms. They had startled her the first night, but now she craved the tickle of them against her skin.

“These are amazing,” Leliana murmured, wondering if the itch in fingers that longed to drift higher was a pull from the magic, or her own desire to collect more of Neria’s sweet sounds.

“Tranquil are good with all kinds of enchantments. Steady hands too.” The Warden’s voice drifted lazily on the air, content to enjoy her lover’s explorations.

“Mages getting enchanted rune tattoos from the Tranquil? I am certain that breaks some law of the Circle, no?” The redhead rested her cheek on Neria’s thigh, fingers stroking the creases where hip met leg. Some of the lyrium tattoos were invisible until stimulated to life, as now when they began to pulse a pale white near Leliana’s lips.

“There’s a lot that goes on that the Templars would absolutely shit their tin shorts over if they found out. Tattooing, secret research, spell duels, recreational use of the alchemy lab,” the elf’s voice faded into a moan as light and pleasing as the brush of a feather when Leliana’s thumbs slid down to play over soft folds, flushed and eager to be touched.

 The way her words trailed away, the bard couldn’t help but think Surana had more to say. Perhaps something she wasn’t sure how to explain? Something that Leliana had been curious to ask about. The chance lay before her now, spread out and willing as the sinuous body so deliciously yielding to her hands.

“Breeding cycles?” The redhead hazarded, keeping her tone as gentle as the fingers gliding between her lover’s legs, pleased to do nothing more than luxuriate in the plush warmth that blossomed so invitingly.

“Void no,” Neria, despite the tremor that caught her breath, managed to laugh at the mere thought. “They keep track of those like every omega has an abomination waiting to rip out of their skin twice a year.”

They weren’t entirely wrong, Leliana mused. It varied, of course, but the mating fever often held that trace of delirium about its edges that might be easily mistaken for madness in any ordinary soul, and possession in a mage. The rise of primal instinct that sharpened the senses created spikes of arousal, frustration, or blind fury at triggers that would be undetectable to anyone else. And, while the commands of the cycle were broad and flexible where there was no specific desire attached, once an attraction had twined itself with those urges the breeding imperative could become a terrifyingly dangerous force for anyone that got in the way.

All of this, however, wasn’t anything new to Leliana. She placed a kiss to the inside of Neria’s thigh, taking a deep breath of the scent that made her tongue writhe behind her lips for want of its taste. She bit the inside of her cheek to curb the demand. Soon. Oh, so soon. There were still questions to be asked.

“And what about the others? The ones that aren’t omega?” Nimble fingers spread her lover’s folds, like opening the velvety petals of a perfectly formed flower. The flesh within was glistening in temptation. She slid through the wetness, her purr mingling with the breathy sound of pleasure that rolled off Neria’s tongue.

“Others,” the Warden repeated, struggling to concentrate both on the conversation and the attentions driving her to distraction. “Betas? If the poor sods catch a bit of fever the Templars don’t care. So long as they fuck quietly and use the tonics.”

“I do not mean betas, Warden.” Leliana no longer used that title in private except when she wanted to be serious.

Neria seldom made any mention—no, she never even said aloud—that she was an alpha. She didn’t have to. Just as the redhead never had to specifically identify her own breed. They’d known each other from the moment they met in the tavern in Lothering. From the lick of heat that caught fire in her heels and raced up her spine the second she laid eyes on the elf, Leliana recognized what she was. By the collision of personal space that felt like they were touching from ten feet away, they knew.  Where most alphas and omegas could meet with little more than a tickle at the base of their spine or on the back of their neck, Neria had been a dizzying surge that ripped all color and sensation out of the world, leaving only the warm glow of one person for the space of a heartbeat.

“What happens to alphas?” Leliana sugared the question with kisses pressed over the heat of her lover’s sex. Her lips moved randomly, scattering affections and caresses, lapping at the nectar that was flowing ever more freely from the mage’s core. A hand brushed the side of her head, fumbling for a grip, eager to guide her mouth and end the conversation.

The bard wouldn’t be deterred, not even by the fingers lacing into her hair. A slow, deliberate drag of her tongue parted slick folds and gathered wetness before flicking, once, against the bud that was stiff and aching for any touch. A gasp and the clench of Neria’s hand in red tresses assured Leliana that she had the elf’s full attention. She looked up, finding darkening spirals of lust in her lover’s gaze.

“We— _ah_ ,” the Warden’s voice leapt in surprise at the rake of nails against her inner thigh. Leliana made sure the warning wasn’t so hard as to ruin her excitement, but enough to make a point. “I,” Neria hastily amended, making the bard smile and resume her more pleasing caresses, “ _I_ was taught to keep myself in check. The same as the others—Damn it, Leli!”

“I do not care about the others,” the redhead clarified, not even slightly apologetic for the second scrape of her nails. She knew quite well that the elf was actually fond of sharper thrills mingled with a delicate touch, and it was only the shock that evoked protest.  “You, Neria,” Leliana pursed her lips as if to blow a kiss but instead sent cold air over feverish flesh, making the woman’s hips buck and twist in her hold. “I want to know what happened with _you_ in the Circle.”

“I’m trying to—oh, _fuck_ —tell you!” The mage had to be the only partner Leliana had ever known that would cling to argument rather than beg for relief. The Warden would grab hold of words like sailors lashing themselves to the mast in a storm, refusing to surrender to her own seduction. The redhead hadn’t yet decided if it was a proficient lover’s pride, or simply her stubborn intellect refusing to give ground to baser demands.

 Perhaps tonight she’d find out, _oui?_

The bard’s tongue slid across her lips, relishing the shape of a wicked smile before she closed over the hard bundle of nerves that twitched and throbbed with Neria’s pulse. The white marks that wove over the elf’s thighs began to glow, turning silver at the edges. Leliana’s sealed lips vibrated with the sound of a muffled moan as she listened to the Warden’s labored breath struggle to shape a reply.

“I, we, alph— _Maker_ —learn control,” Neria’s words fumbled on her tongue, the last one breaking ironically over a low groan as she rocked against her lover’s mouth.

There was a depth to the mage’s sounds, an instinctive rhythm in the roll of her hips that had planted suspicions in Leliana’s mind from the first time she pressed her lips to this tiny point at the apex of Neria’s sex. It was arguably the smallest part of the Warden’s earthly flesh, yet undoubtedly her greatest weakness. Far more than in any other woman the bard had seduced. Perhaps because the elf herself was unlike any other woman?

The raw, nearly animal rumble of need that broke from Surana’s mouth betrayed a pleasure, an arousal, which dwelled much deeper within her than what Leliana’s clever tongue could reach. The elf’s body held some mystery she had yet to unlock. She could feel the edges of it in the tremor of the Warden’s stomach, the sound of something stifled on her moans.

 “How, Neria?” A frustrated whine protested the redhead’s lips drawing away, but the hand in her hair was too kind to force her back. “Tell me how you control it?”

The redhead circled her thumb over the stiff flesh so recently bereft of her mouth, felt the pulse in it that raced with Neria’s heartbeat. All the while she kept her eyes fixed on her lover’s face, watched as instinct warred with reason across those sharp, stunning features. A thin film of sweat was making the Warden’s skin glow in the firelight, and her mouth was parted over ragged breath, but still she didn’t speak. There was a secret here, caught behind Neria’s clenched teeth, buried in the pleasure that throbbed so insistently beneath Leliana’s fingers.

For some reason, with all they’d shared, here was a part of herself that the Warden was hesitating to reveal. It stung beneath the bard’s ribs, a sliver of sad pain like a shard of broken glass lodged under skin. Neria had held nothing back in all this time together, what could possibly be worth concealing now? A flicker of worry darted across the elf’s eyes, so quick Leliana might have missed it if she weren’t watching for every sign. After becoming so close, what could create this doubt?

“You can tell me, ma chere,” she coaxed, slowing her touch to soothe instead of excite. She rose up to scatter kisses over the sensitive skin inches above where her fingers moved, hearing more than feeling the answering shiver in Neria’s sigh. “You can always tell me anything.”

“I don’t go into rut,” the answer spilled out all at once, rushing past the elf’s lips on a single breath. Surana’s features winced, as if it were difficult even to reveal so much. That was her secret? Leliana didn’t respond at once, turning the confession over in her mind to find what made her lover so uncomfortable. There was still so little understood about alphas of this kind.

“I did not know that was possible,” the bard let her own reply unfold slowly off her tongue, hoping the lightness of her voice might lessen the tension holding Neria captive.

“Takes a lot of training, and quite a few mistakes,” the elf admitted, deliberately staring up to avoid revealing too much in her eyes. “With enough effort anything can be harnessed; lightning, fire, terror, even the breeding drive,” there was a faint chuckle and Leliana suspected the mage was trying to hide a tremor in her breath. “Bodies can be bent to will rather than instinct.”

“You are talking in riddles, Neria. That’s supposed to be my habit, no?” The redhead teased, already beginning to relax in the certainty that there was no great danger or mystery here to unravel. Whatever burden the Warden thought she was carrying, Leliana would happily help her bear.

“I control my shift,” the explanation was quieter than anything else the mage had said thus far. It was so startling a revelation that the bard momentarily froze. Did she really mean—? _Holy Andraste’s Tears._  Leliana felt shock chase a ripple of excitement down her spine.  

Misinterpreting her stillness, Neria hurried to offer reassurances, “I don’t have to do it very often. Just enough to keep the urge balanced. If the desire gets too strong. . .” She bit her lip, leaving the obvious conclusion unspoken.

A sliver of comprehension, like sunlight emerging from behind a storm cloud, crept across the omega’s mind. Oh, that could explain so very much.

“I see,” she couldn’t entirely keep the amusement concealed, nor the delight beginning to curl her lips into the same sinful shape as her thoughts. “Then I suppose I am making it more difficult for you?”

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” the Warden groaned as Leliana’s mouth descended on her like before. The simple reply was remarkably eloquent for a curse, and so was the jerk of Neria’s hips as she tried to resist her lover’s persuasive lips.

“Show me?” The bard drew back just long enough for words before closing on the bud of stiff flesh once more. Was it only her imagination, or were the twitches growing stronger?

“I don’t need to,” the mage gave a violent shake of her head, one hand fisting the bedroll as she panted. “Not yet.”

“Please, chere?” Leliana wrapped the endearment in a low, honeyed tone. The alluring sound was her love’s second greatest weakness. When combined with the first—tongue swirling circles all around that sensitive peak—she knew the alpha would have to give in.

The only response was a moan that rose out of Neria like Andraste’s soul reaching to the Maker, sending a shiver all the way to the redhead’s toes. There was a moment of paralysis, the elf’s entire body seemingly turned inwards, and then Leliana felt it: the steady pulse of a heartbeat growing heavier against her lips. The hard point shuddered and began to swell, rising into the coaxing warmth of her mouth.

Instinctively she eased back, making room for the rapidly thickening length so she could explore it with her tongue. The flared head filled her mouth, sensitive on the underside of the tip. Lashing at it brought a harsh buck from Neria’s hips and a curse, the mage’s hands both fisting in red hair. From the corner of her eye, Leliana saw new colors flashing to life on her lover’s stomach, tattoos she’d never seen before that grew steadily clearer as the alpha’s body changed. When there was more than her lips could cover the bard quickly wrapped a hand around the shaft, marveling at the heat and pressure as it pulsed against her palm.

A taste began to slip over the redhead’s tongue. Heavy and dark, salty with a trace hint of the tartness that she already knew. It was like the flavor that she’d plundered from Neria’s silken core had been boiled down, condensed to this essence. Leliana played her tongue over the mage’s tip, gathering up the beads of arousal that leaked out with every draw of her mouth.

When the shift was complete an entirely new design of lyrium ink adorned Neria’s belly and upper thighs, glowing in time with the throb of her cock. Leliana released the livid head from her mouth with a last suck, the deliberately obscene sound piercing through soft noises of breathlessness.

“Amazing,” the bard murmured, rising up so she could survey the whole of the alpha in all her glory. She felt like an army commander gazing across a field of victory, intoxicated on a twist of pride and greed that was positively unholy. “Why would you ever try to keep such a gift hidden?” In that moment the omega wasn’t entirely sure if she meant her lover’s ability to shift on command, or simply the generous endowment she’d been given by the Maker.

“I knew you—,” Neria hesitated, doubt creeping back into her eyes even though it had to scythe through the shadows of desire that deepened with every stroke of the redhead’s hand. “I _thought_ you preferred women.”

That immediately tore Leliana’s attention away from the mesmerizing sight in her grip. She stilled her fingers and concentrated only on the unguarded expression of the Warden’s face. She’d never before seen such uncertainty hollow out the color of her eyes like a well. Even when her voice was strong, trying to stay firm and calm, there was emotion bleeding through its cracks.

“You are a woman,” Leliana’s iron tone would tolerate no argument, incensed to think that there could ever be such a question. “You are perfect, Neria.” Music flowed back into her voice as she softened, trailing kisses all the way up Surana’s body until she caught her lips. The caress of her mouth was slow and warm, patiently easing the arguments off her lover’s tongue.

Only when she was certain that the mage had no protest left did she lean back, stroking one hand over a finely shaped cheek. “And I _‘prefer,’_ ” she put extra emphasis on the elf’s earlier choice of words. “Being with someone I love.”

So saying, Leliana descended Neria’s body once more, determined to prove—in painstaking detail—exactly how much she loved _everything_ about her chosen mate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! Now that I'm done with my other project I should be able to focus on this story exclusively. Barring plot bunnies. Hopefully I'll be able to update every few days. Comments, opinions and suggestions are all welcome ways of keeping me on task, so thanks to everyone who's already been commenting and I hope you continue to do so.


	5. A Forgotten Face

**The Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_In the empty spaces where our hearts hunger for a forgotten face – Trials 1:4_

Leliana woke with a curse barely held on the back of her tongue. Leave it to a fever dream to end before the best part. She groaned and rolled over, gratefully escaping the damp sheets clinging to her body for a few seconds. The dry portion of her scant bedding wouldn’t stay that way long, she could already feel beads of perspiration coalescing on her skin and tickling down her spine. In the early dawn light she could _see_ her breath becoming clouds of fog in the frigid air.

The dull ache between her legs gave a wholly unnecessary throb of reminder, just in case there was any chance the omega might have forgotten why she was suffering, and she fisted one hand in her pillow. For a passing moment she considered slipping her fingers into that pounding heat and easing the pressure, now while Neria’s sound and taste was so fresh in her mind, now when she could remember so perfectly how it had felt taking the alpha inside herself for the first time. She was wet enough that three fingers wouldn’t even find resistance, just that delicious stretch and fullness that her entire body craved.

The spymaster bolted upright, her natural grace masking the violence of the abrupt movement as she pushed herself out of bed. It was too soon for such indulgences. Maybe tomorrow, or by the day after that she’d have no choice, the demands reaching a torturous zenith that could actually be alleviated with brief, shallow pleasures. To do so now would only inflame the fever, emphasizing everything she missed and pushing her further from control. After more than a dozen mating cycles alone, Leliana knew how to drag her body through this madness.

There was a cool discipline to her movements as she began the day, reminiscent of a wind-up toy mechanically going through actions. Except the tension coiling in her muscles felt more like the singing tautness of a crossbow string. Her washbasin had a sheet of ice across the top that gave a wonderfully satisfying crack under her fist. The freezing water raised goosebumps as she impatiently scoured her flesh with a soaked rag. Was the moisture turning to steam on her skin or was that still the fire of her breath filling the room?

Before she could become distracted by such questions, she grabbed up her clothes and began to rapidly dress. The utilitarian fabric of her tunic and trousers chafed her skin, making her long for the smooth silks and wispy laces she’d worn for years in the ball rooms of Val Royeaux.  Shallow as it was, there had been a heady pride in wielding such clothing like a weapon. How many hours had she spent on making sure every ruffle was in exactly the right place? That the lines and seams of each satin gown fell over her curves in a way that perfectly accented the temptations beneath? To trade Orlesian fashion for holy robes, and then swap those garments for armor, and finally even trade armor for a shroud; what she wore on the outside seemed to mirror a little too accurately what she felt within as well. From the center of attention to a spectre in the shadows.

Then again, if she were to show up at the war table in the dresses she had worn in her most reckless, deadly days—slippery silk, sheer taffeta, plunging necklines with jewelry that drew the eyes to precisely where they shouldn’t wander—nothing at all would get accomplished. The Inquisitor was not a woman particularly subtle about her interests. Leliana’s lips turned into a slight smirk as she slid into her chainmail and leather. Thank the Maker the noble had quickly set her sights on prey that was no less dangerous but slightly more attainable. _Slightly._

There was something calming about the familiar weight of the large fastener the former Left Hand attached over her breastbone, the all-seeing eye of the Chantry resting secure atop her heart. She felt a similar (if less spiritual) comfort in the sharp edge of each blade that she slid into their concealed sheaths. Absently, her mind drifted back to the previous day’s conversation with Cassandra and the supposed perils of being in heat. A grim smile spread across her face, reflected in the perfect polish of a particularly deadly dagger. Even if an alpha was foolish enough to try to take a claimed omega, there wasn’t a soul alive that could get within three feet of Sister Nightingale unless she let them.

Armed (in more ways than one) for the rigors of the coming day Leliana stepped out into the dim but open air of the rookery. Her birds were well trained, not a one would so much as flap a wing in her direction if she didn’t wish it. As she strolled past the cages she crooned a quiet greeting, receiving excited replies in a variety of squawks and cries from the feathered allies just as eager to begin their work.

Two sights on her worktable immediately caught Leliana’s attention. The pile of reports and messages that had arrived during her few hours of sleep made the corner of her eye twitch in annoyance. But the steaming cup of tea resting nearby soothed her irritation into an affectionate smile.  She knew from the scent wafting across the air exactly what the herbal concoction was, a noxious blend she only drank twice a year. Did anyone in Skyhold have the slightest hint that the feared Seeker Pentaghast could be so considerate?

Leliana sat down and sipped the hot beverage, scowling in distaste at the pungent aroma but grateful nonetheless. Cassandra knew that the tonics and potions which might alleviate an omega’s suffering all drained energy or fogged the mind, and therefore the spymaster wouldn’t touch them. This herbal remedy might not sate the heat or cool her blood so effectively, but it would mask the symptoms. Fondness quirked her lips. Leave it to Cassandra to remember that she preferred it with a bit of lemon.

She had only just finished the cup of tea when a servant arrived with a message. The Inquisitor was summoning the war council. A glance out the window confirmed that the sun was still quite low above the snowcapped peaks, dawn just now giving way to day. Trevelyan must have had a restless night again. The spymaster frowned and set aside her empty cup. She adjusted her cowl and said a silent prayer that the tea had time to work. The Inquisition had trouble enough, they didn’t need gossip spreading that their Seneschal was incapacitated by breeding fever.

Descending from the rookery her thoughts mulled over the Herald of Andraste, their Inquisitor. She had changed rapidly from the lighthearted noble her reputation suggested, and though she kept a strong and confident mask in place at all times, the spymaster could see where the wear was beginning to bleed through. Particularly late at night when Leliana looked out and saw lights still burning in their leader’s window and the fretful pacing of her silhouette.

There were many nights she’d awoken and seen the Warden keeping a similar vigil by the fire, determination and anxiety standing guard against unknown enemies. The mage always laughed it off, complaining that sleeping in the forest was too noisy after life in the Circle. Fortunately, they found a solution to that. Leliana tugged her cowl forward, making sure it could hide any trace of the smile that had begun to shape her lips. Not once, in all their nights sharing a bedroll, did she wake to find an empty space beside her or that agitated shadow pacing the camp. Perhaps Elyn simply needed the same relief?

Her mind drifted back and forth between past and present, contemplating parallels and ironies. Thus, Leliana wasn’t paying much attention to her environment until she suddenly felt the breath ripped out of her lungs in a gasp of shock. The tingling taste of lightning, like a storm had just passed and left its signature in the very air. A thousand needles raced down her spine faster than she could catch, and blood drained from her head so quickly that the room spun. The spymaster clenched her fists, willing her legs not to buckle as the sensation washed through her. She didn’t dare bite her lip for fear she’d draw blood. There was a low buzz behind her teeth. Her tongue twisted with the memory of a charge arcing through her whole body, from Neria’s lips molded against her own to the fingers curled within her, magic coaxing the release of a flood.

If her jaw weren’t clamped so tight a moan would’ve surely escaped her. Instead she focused only on keeping her breaths deep and even, waiting for the moment to pass. When the tide finally abated she shook off the remaining dizziness and uncurled her numbed fingers. Her eyes quickly darted about the area, as if searching for a trap. The memory was so swift, so visceral; she could still feel her muscles shaking from the intensity of it. She’d experienced the ghost of sounds and touches before, even fantasies that blurred reality for a few heartbeats and yanked her back in time. Never so early in a heat, though, and never without cause.

Her gaze fell on Dorian and Fiona ahead of her, engaged in some philosophical debate that would doubtless result in one of them declaring the other a barbarian. She was only a few paces away from Helisma and her research as well. The mages must have been conducting an experiment, or practicing a spell; something that left the lingering sharpness of lightning in the air. That had to be the reason. The only possible explanation.

Thus assured, Leliana shoved the entire matter aside and continued on her way. She concentrated on every step, reciting in her mind the list of reports that needed the Inquisitor’s decision. That brief surge of heat had made her blood start to sizzle in her veins; a simmer like boiling molasses, lazy bubbles bursting along her nerves and dribbling thickly back to the lowest part of her belly. She kept her gait swift and even across the throne room, moving like the shadows she dwelled so comfortably within. Though they didn’t notice her, she watched the various soldiers and servants carefully as she passed near, searching for any sign of flushed skin or darkened eyes. Thus far the tea was working. No one else would suffer besides her.

The slam of a heavy door swinging shut behind her gave Leliana permission to let out a small sigh of relief. Josephine’s smile of greeting felt like balm to the feverish disorder of her mind. It was soothing just to be in the presence of her friend; Josie’s calm and gentle manner had that effect on everyone. Unless they didn’t know how to properly handle a cheese knife. That tended to bring out the worst in their ambassador.

“Excellent timing, Leliana, I just finished a letter to the Marquise de Chevin. Now that we have secured Empress Celene’s aid, we can call upon her allies and supporters to lend support as well.” Josephine daintily tapped fine sand across the paper, drying the ink before blowing it away. The Antivan diplomat would wring a negotiation out of the last seconds of her life, Leliana was sure of it.

The spymaster smiled and strolled across the room, a reply already forming on her lips when—for the second time—a shiver racked her body and stole all sense. The scent. Maker, she knew that smell. Loam and blossoms, clean notes of greenery amidst the heavier richness of life. It was the fragrance of Ferelden forests and river spilling over rock. At the very edges of those earthy tones, a teasing hint of something sweet, like the song of a flute over heavy horns. Andraste’s Grace.

Try as she might, Leliana couldn’t keep her eyes open as she took a deep breath, longing to drown in that familiar scent. Simple white petals around a delicate pink heart, handfuls of them laid out over her skin. One by one tenderly placed like offerings on an altar, each following a languid caress of plush lips as if they held the affection in place.

_If not for the warm glow swelling beneath her breasts, the sighing redhead would be positively shivering from the need that trailed in the wake of each tickling touch._

_“How long did you spend gathering so many?” The question was breathless, trying to distract herself as the sweet smelling flowers interspersed with lingering kisses moved ever lower down her body._

_“They’re not so hard to find,” Neria’s words against her thigh are even more torturous than her lips. “I only have to close my eyes and follow the scent of you.”_

_The answer was more than explanation. It was a confession that melted Leliana to the bone. Such a simple reply encompassed an entire world of emotion; the extent of the bond that had already blossomed between them, holding both women hostage to each other on the most instinctive level._

“Are you alright, Leliana?” Josephine’s voice called the spymaster back to herself. There was naked worry on the Antivan’s face as she approached her friend, gaze sweeping over her for distress.

“I’m fine, Josie,” Leliana’s voice was slow and rough in her throat as she tore herself free of the vivid memory.

The bard cursed herself for the lapse of control. It was too soon to already be losing such fights. She would not let instinct win out after all this time. Following Josie down the corridor to the war room she scolded each wayward thought and rebellious nerve. Even if this fever was worse than the others, she would sooner be damned than let it affect their work. She vowed that this abominable plague would not so much as make her twitch in front of her fellow advisors.

They stepped into the chamber that housed the war table, the Inquisitor already waiting along with the other two. Cullen and— _oh, no—_ Leliana felt creeping fingers of horror climb her neck as her eyes fell to the newest member of their Inner Circle. Morrigan.

The threads of tension laced through her body all twisted together, plucked and quivering, joining together into a deep, humming note that felt like the need to scream. Leliana hadn’t forgotten about her former ally's arrival, but neither had she stopped to consider what effect seeing the witch might have during the tortures of fever. A surge of nearly painful electricity coursed along her spine and sent echoing waves all the way to her fingers and toes.

_Oh, Maker, please._

Those golden eyes slid imperiously across the room and rested on her. For the first time in nearly fourteen years, Leliana’s prayers died upon her tongue. As she met that gaze, unflinching but unable to break away, she knew that this mating cycle had just gotten infinitely more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand suddenly the story everyone thought I was going to tell makes a violent turn and careens down the alley! Feedback is really appreciated.


	6. Who Knows . . .?

**The Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Who knows me as you do? –Trials 1:11_

Inquisitor Trevelyan didn’t know what to make of Morrigan. She was the arcane advisor to Empress Celeste but obviously despised the court. An apostate that didn’t give a damn about helping mages. She wore red velvet gowns with gold trim, a plunging neckline and a smug smile as she watched eyes trying not to follow. But she looked even more beguiling in rugged leather with scant threads and feathers, so much more dangerous in her own skin and so clearly comfortable with it. She spoke in cool and collected measures, but the forced tact sat sharp on her tongue like a blade waiting to plunge.

“The revelations of the Summer Palace have rocked Orlais,” Josephine’s voice broke through Elyn’s ruminations. “The Inquisition now appears a source of stability and aid rather than a threat to the Empire. We must move quickly to capitalize on that good will.”

Right. Politics. Trevelyan looked over the war table and its many markers, each one a decision made or waiting and yet all of them reminiscent of tally marks in some grand ledger. It was so much easier when they just wanted her to go out and kill things.

“Agreed. We’ve denied Corypheus a foothold in Orlais but aspiring gods really don’t like having their toys taken away. We need to be ready for a temper tantrum.” The Inquisitor swept her eyes across her advisors, silently inviting input.

“His forces still have strong positions in the Hissing Wastes and Emerald Graves. They control fortresses that are crucial if we want to completely take back the Empire.”  Cullen’s priority was always military strategy. Like any good soldier, he believed that wars were won on the battlefield in honest combat. The tiny, bemused expressions often shared between Josephine and Leliana knew better.

“We need allies to shoulder the burden. Florianne’s betrayal has created upheaval in the hierarchy of the Game. Many in court would put their resources at our disposal if the Inquisition were to intercede in a few key disputes.” The Antivan had already prevented or won an untold number of battles with a few deft strokes of ink. She and Cullen were always on opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to resolving issues.

That was why Trevelyan usually deferred to Leliana; the spymaster had an uncanny talent for threading the needle between daggers and diplomacy. This morning the bard was scowling at the war table, an undecipherable emotion darkening her usual stoic calm. A sliver of worry darted beneath Elyn’s thoughts.

Cassandra had spoken to Leliana, hadn’t she? Not for the first time, Trevelyan wished the Seeker still attended these council meetings. Partly because she wanted someone else to suffer through all this frustration, partly because she sorely missed letting her eyes rove over the warrior while pretending to listen to the others drone on; but mostly for times like this. Cassandra knew the other advisors far better than Elyn. She could speak Cullen’s military language, and she knew how to read the shift of Leliana’s thoughts toward shadows. She was helpless against Josephine’s sweetness, but honestly they all were.

“Leliana?” She nudged, a trifle nervous that interrupting the redhead’s thoughts might get a dagger snapping through the air.

“The Grey Wardens,” the spymaster’s response was immediate, the words tumbling off her lips like they’d been lurking on the edge of her tongue for days. Perhaps longer.  She deliberately wrested her eyes away from the map to rivet her gaze on the Inquisitor. “Hawke believes she can find out where the Wardens are hiding. We still do not know the extent of Corypheus’ manipulation or his intent with them but they would be a terrible weapon in his hands.”

“We know his intent,” Morrigan spoke suddenly, making her presence felt for the first time. “He wishes to enter the Fade and capture the Black City. Feats he will not accomplish by means of a mortal army no matter its size. While you’re wasting time on military distractions his agents are scavenging elvhen ruins, no doubt seeking the means to penetrate the Veil. Your forces would be best used finding what he seeks before they do.”

Elyn saw a sudden flash of irritation in Leliana’s eyes, but it was quickly concealed behind the familiar stoic mask.

“There have been multiple reports of red templars sighted in the Emerald Graves and Arbor Wilds,” Josephine conceded, ever the diplomat.

“Incursions that could best be stopped by a stronger presence from our troops. If we control the lands where these ruins lay, we can prevent Corypheus’ people getting anywhere near them.” Cullen wasn’t so quick to back off his agenda.

“And while you waste time playing soldiers, he will acquire whatever artifacts he needs and put them to use before we even know what they were.” Everything about Morrigan’s posture, from the folded arms to the haughty tilt of her chin was an eloquent portrait of disdain. She looked at Cullen the same way Elyn saw her gazing at courtiers at the ball. Erasing them from awareness. Not worth her time.

“What do you suggest? That we spread our army to the thinness of a spider’s web scouring all the ruins in Orlais in the _chance_ of finding something that helps?” Cullen wasn’t at all fazed by the witch’s demeanor.

“Do not underestimate the value of spider webs, Commander,” the apostate rolled her eyes. “However, I do not believe your soldiers would know a valuable relic if ‘twere broken over their heads. ‘Twould be far swifter to provide me with a skilled detail. I will find Corypheus’ intent in the ruins.”

“Of course,” the ironic chuckle was nothing more than a breath on Leliana’s lips but it seized everyone’s attention in an instant.

“Insight, Sister Nightingale?” Trevelyan probed, noting the wry smirk that danced across the redhead’s face. But it wasn’t the Inquisitor that Leliana addressed; no, her attention had fixed on Morrigan alone.

“Convenient, is it not? That Corypheus’ scouts should be in all the same places you wish to explore? You are not here as liaison for Celene, or to aid the Inquisition. You are here for your own agenda. Your lust for secrets gives you away.” The Spymaster’s condemnation was offered in a lilting tone, like the songs of children playing games.

 Elyn looked between the two women in surprise. It wasn’t like Leliana to call someone out so suddenly. She usually preferred to hoard her knowledge of others, to lock away their secret motivations and selfish plans until she could use each and every one like the winning hand of Wicked Grace.

“And your feelings betray you,” Morrigan met the bard note for note in mockery. Dignified and superior, yet still so eagerly rising to the bait. “Your concern for the Wardens would be far more convincing if ‘twere not one warden in particular consuming your thoughts.”

Trevelyan could barely mask the sharp gasp that sucked air into her shocked lungs. Had the witch really just invoked the Hero as an accusation? Pain momentarily burst in Leliana’s eyes, swallowed up just as quickly by a pinpoints of flashing anger.

“I have not hidden my affections, nor my worries. My allies know my heart. Have you been so forthcoming? Or have your mother’s lessons fully taken root?” If Morrigan referencing the Hero of Ferelden was a slap in the face, this was a knife to the throat.

Elyn didn’t know anything about Morrigan’s mother, or—for Maker’s sake!— _any_ of the history these two women so clearly shared, but she could feel the shift of the energy in the room. The air was charged like the buildup of a lethal spell. The bard and apostate were all but nose to nose, shrouds of pride and control enfolding them each in impenetrable armor and waiting for the other to flinch. Which was quicker: daggers or magic? From inches apart it couldn’t possibly matter.

“And here I thought leaving the Chantry would make you stop talking of things you don’t understand.” Morrigan’s breath was growing ragged, revealing the effort of holding her restraint. There was a subtle flare to her nostrils that made Elyn's dormant mind tickle in suspicion. She inconspicuously echoed the movement and instantly felt beads of sweat forming along her collar. The air was growing heavy with an uncomfortable warmth, clinging inside her lungs. _Shit, not good._

A swift dart of her eyes to Cullen and Josephine revealed that her allies would be no use. The Commander didn’t even seem to notice that anything was wrong. He was studying the map markers and casting impatient glances up at the two women as if they just needed to wrap up the argument and get back to work. Josephine’s usually inscrutable expression had allowed some confusion to bleed through A line furrowed the Antivan’s brow as she tried to divine what was behind her friend’s uncharacteristic behavior. _Maker save me from betas._

“Just as I thought leaving the wilds might make you less of a beast.” The redhead’s voice had dropped an octave or more. Not a growl, for it was still too soft and tempting in cadence but there was an unmistakable challenge in her tone. Taunting, daring the listener to take action; and in this moment Trevelyan truly had no idea what form that might take. Morrigan’s hands had begun to clench into fists, but that was far less worrying than the threatening flash of teeth in her scowl.

“Enough!” The Inquisitor forced both women to remember themselves. She didn’t assert her presence all that often, hating the way authority rolled off her like a cliché. But her nerves were starting to rattle and she’d lost feeling in her hands from gripping the war table too tight. She needed out of this room, away from the seductive energy that permeated the air like a mind-twisting mist.

She straightened up, adjusting her jacket and subtly shaking blood back into her fingers. Thank the Maker that her naturally commanding tone masked any tremor as she spoke, “I’ll think on all your recommendations and make my decision before morning.”

Her advisors knew that was code for needing time to hit things with Cassandra, argue with Dorian or drink with Varric. As they made their way from the war room Elyn ran a trembling, frustrated hand over her face. She had a feeling that today it would have to be all three.

0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0         

Flesh rent from bone by the claws of a bear. Morrigan could feel her hands curling into fists, longing to shift as the fantasy crossed her mind. A cone of cold, tears turning to icicles as blood froze and shattered. Servants shivered as she strode past them in the throne room. (But then everyone tended to shudder or cringe in the presence of the famed witch.) A horror spell, yes, that was the best yet. Bring back all the agonies of a lifetime and make her relive each and every one until her mind broke under the weight of pain. The thought curled Morrigan’s lips up in a dark twist of pleasure that not even a madman would call a smile.

She had forgotten this sensation: the way words could stick beneath her skin like barbed thorns. Years in the court of Orlais and not one dimwitted noble or prancing ponce had ever succeeded in goading her temper. She had—foolishly, it seems—thought herself above such petty games now. Yet not even five minutes in that damnable woman’s company and she felt the spikes of emotion bursting forward, ready to lash out with an almost childlike eagerness.

Val Royeaux was a pantomime; silent, untouchable puppetry more akin to playing a game of chess than actual wits. Morrigan had slid through that world as if it were frozen, seeing it like the ruins of Elvhenan but with less use. It had been a long time since she had felt this heat of anger behind her eyes, the dragon’s fire in her belly. The insolence of her! Challenging Morrigan over things she couldn’t possibly understand. The sheer ignorance of it! Unapologetic, arrogant, stubborn defiance!

The witch paused in an empty passageway, startled to find she was out of breath and taking in air as if she’d just fled heavy battle. She brushed one hand against the smooth stone of the wall, feeling the timelessness of eons cool her skin. That was what history offered: perspective. She squared herself, reaching for the objective detachment that came only from time.

To be fair, she’d felt a thrill of juvenile glee in falling into that familiar conflict. It had always been so satisfying to leave tears and scars across Leliana’s foolishly romantic notions, to war with her ideals even if neither of them could ever win. It had been her favorite sport back then; teasing out sharp reactions and irritated glances, evoking the occasional horrified gasp or scandalized curse. She’d never admitted to anyone how much she enjoyed those sounds, always so raw and real. The only piece of Leliana that she believed to be true was what she revealed in those moments when their anger was boiling and ready for blood.

_She does not hide herself as she did._ Morrigan resumed walking, mulling over the change in the bard. Ironic though it was, concealed in shadows and shrouds the Orlesian was more honestly herself than she had ever been while wearing the Chantry’s sun. She had played the sweet, innocent lay sister masterfully, but that was all it was: a role to play. It was a marvel to see her revealing her true nature at last, rather like watching the walls of an egg crack and shatter to free the fanged wyvern within. Leliana was not gentle or kind as her voice. She was not so sweet and innocent, no matter what her face led others to believe. Above all, she was not serene. She was controlled. The difference was as extreme as that between a rain puddle and the whole ocean.

Leliana was danger in restraint. She had discipline over the death at her fingertips, much like Morrigan herself had mastered. They wielded different weapons but the outcome was the same and the impulses just as tempting. The spymaster had forged herself into a woman as cool and hard as the blades she concealed; secret and deadly. As Nightingale she was so much more worthy an adversary, so much more intriguing. Morrigan unconsciously ran her tongue along her upper lip, vaguely aware of the smirk tilting one edge.

 What lay beneath the cowl and armor? How many scars? The sharpness of Leliana’s mind glinted in her eyes now, danced on her tongue like daggers. The witch couldn’t help but wonder if her former ally had shed _all_ pretenses of softness. Perhaps she’d given up her silly preoccupation with appearances. Maybe now she finally left bruises and welts in the wake of her passions instead of just lipstick and blushes. It had been torture all those years ago; watching those two imbeciles fumble their way into each other’s small clothes! All that bloody romance and hesitation when what they really needed was to stop talking. Stop thinking. Touch. Feel. Take.

_Sodding damnation._

Morrigan gripped the wall again, this time because a wave of dizziness nearly sucked color out of the world. She quickly scanned back through her thoughts, realizing with growing horror the graphic nature. There was a fleeting image of red hair tossed back and a pale throat exposed to open moonlight. It made her mouth go dry and she recoiled, forcing it away. This was merely from the excitement of the argument. That was all. She’d not felt so enlivened in a long time.

 Nightingale was indeed far more attractive than the bard she’d known ten years ago; Morrigan could admit as much without shame. But the heat tingling through her veins! That was something altogether different. She’d not felt the like of it since . . .

_Fingers trailing down her sides, circling her waist, confident hands gripping her thighs in sparks and fire._

Morrigan bit her lip, refusing to give voice to the sound that she knew was clawing up her throat. Whatever demon this argument had awakened, it seemed determined to put her mind and body at war.

_The warmth of a mouth moving along her neck and shoulder, deliberately leaving marks like victory flags, luring the most wanton sounds past her lips. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to want—_

The witch of the wilds strode into her quarters and slammed the door shut like it would bar all such wayward thoughts from her mind. She needed to calm down and she knew one absolutely sure solution. Making her way across the living space she’d been given by the Inquisition (unnecessarily grand, but such was expected for Empress Celene’s representative) she slid through the second door to a more modest room.

 The moment she crossed the threshold she felt a deep sigh filling her lungs, soothing away the agitation and turmoil. Everything within settled into a placid calm, absolutely certain about the realities in her world and how she would fight for them. She had never thought it possible: this unimaginably fierce strength of will coupled with shivering weakness, afraid for the delicacy of the treasure she had to protect.

“Mother! You’re back early.” Kieran jumped up from his desk and hurtled across the room, eagerly crashing into her.

He was at an age where he could still squeeze her with all his strength and it merely shocked the air from her lungs. In a few more years it was really going to hurt. Morrigan wrapped her arms around her son, well aware that even if it cracked her bones she’d never wish him to stop. She relaxed into the hug, breath ruffling his hair as she absorbed the contentment and peace that had never seemed attainable in her life but had filled her the moment she first held him in her arms.

She would happily do everything in her life over again exactly the same so long as it meant having him. Morrigan stroked one hand lightly through his dark hair, memorizing the smooth, thick strands gliding between her fingers and the light laugh when her touch tickled the back of his neck. He was the only thing she would ever call perfect. And he was so very, very much like _her . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the story seems to be going all over the place right now but please stick with me, I promise it'll all end up in a good spot. And please let me know thoughts and reactions since that's how I'll be able to gauge which plot points need to be fine-tuned!


	7. You Have Seen Me

**Ferelden, 9:31 Dragon**

_You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. – Trials 1:11_

Morrigan eyed the Grey Warden walking along at her side. There was an intriguing manner to the elf’s languid movements, the ease of her posture and gait completely concealing the tightly wound reflexes that had more than once leapt into action before anyone else sensed danger. Surana’s gaze was absently fixed on the road ahead, distracted in her own thoughts. But then her eyes darted quickly and caught Morrigan’s, brightness in the color laughing at the witch’s failed attempt to study her without notice.

“You are taller than most elves.” The apostate decided it was pointless to disguise her curiosity.

“Oh? Many of my kind running about in the wilds, were there?” Surana quipped back. It was answer enough to what hadn’t really been a question anyway.

 In fact, there were no elf camps in the Korcari Wilds because of its dangers. However, even the gravest of threat wasn’t always enough to stop the truly desperate from finding their way to the ramshackle hut in the middle of the dark woods, full of fear and pleas and the name Asha’bellanar on their lips. Aside from them there were also the elvhen Morrigan had observed on her brief sojourns into the villages. But memory could be a fickle thing.

It wasn’t until these past few weeks of adventuring brought their unlikely band of heroes to the Dalish camp in the Brecilian Forest that she had a true opportunity for comparison. Warden Surana not only stood a head taller than most of her kind, she carried herself differently from the rest. The skittish people were nervous of her yet not so much that they could keep away, following her about the caravels in circles like heavenly bodies held in the pull of a sun. Alistair and Zevran ascribed it to her Grey Warden armor and mage’s staff. Morrigan didn’t think it quite so simple.

“You are also unusually fit for a Circle mage,” the witch casually continued her observations. The Chantry might chain their mages, but they coddled them as well. The softness that came from a life of training their minds and magic instead of muscles gave the Templars a much needed edge over their wards. Yet Neria moved, battled and filled her armor with the undeniable ease of strength.

“And you,” Surana quirked one playful eyebrow at her, “Are unusually interested in my body for someone who claims not to like women.”

Another anomaly that Morrigan couldn’t have predicted: Neria wasn’t at all stung by the rejection. Where most paramours would sulk into shadows and lick their wounded pride, or turn cold and distant in retaliation, Surana had accepted the witch’s answer with warmth and respect. Then continued to flirt with her just as incessantly because she enjoyed the confusion it caused. The mischievous woman positively gloried in throwing people off balance, just to see what would happen. Yet, it never worried her or any of their friends because there was this strange, innate sense that whatever did happen? Neria could handle it.

“You’re an alpha, aren’t you?” Morrigan’s words were the shape of a question, but her voice was simple fact.

“So?” Rather than being at all perturbed by the revelation, Surana seemed to have grown bored with the subject. Her eyes and tone held much the same indifference that Morrigan always felt when people insisted on bringing up her status as a witch.

“I wonder if ‘tis not part of the reason you are consumed in this endeavor,” the apostate hummed thoughtfully, looking to the far horizon as if the Blight might have become a visible cloud of doom. She continued to ruminate, pondering possible answers aloud, “You have a natural instinct to protect and defend. Could that be what pushes you to fight the impossible? Is it an elaborate means of gaining dominance?”

“Ah, so I can’t just be a noble but suicidal madwoman trying to the save the world. I have to be a breeder showing off the size of my dick?” Neria teased, tilting her head to one side as if the shift in angle would let her see what the other woman was thinking.

 “The thought had crossed my mind,” Morrigan shrugged.

“My being crazy or the size of my dick?” The Warden shot her a wicked smirk and suddenly the purr of amusement that had been tickling Morrigan’s throat broke loose. They both devolved into laughter, savoring the pleasure of such a simple freedom. Alistair glanced at them from over his shoulder, expression partially horrified but mostly confused. He had to have heard precisely the wrong bits of that conversation and the look on his face made both women laugh even harder.

 It felt strange to enjoy such openness, the trust that Neria offered so easily. It made Morrigan feel lighter. That was Surana’s unique charm; she lifted the burdens from others without ever seeming to carry any of her own. The elf had no hesitation about herself, no traces of confusion or shame. She wasn’t tainted with the conditioned self-loathing that Morrigan would have expected from someone raised under the title ‘aberrant.’ Possibly because life in the Circle already stamps its victims with so many hateful labels and slanderous reputations that one more was but a drop in the storm.

“Are the stories I hear about alphas in the Circles true?” The witch felt her laughter fade as her mind twisted towards those abominable tower prisons once more.

“There are a lot of stories, you’ll have to be more specific,” Neria shook her head. “If there’s anything involving feathers it’s probably true but the stuff about custard is just gossip.”

Morrigan couldn’t help but smile once more, amused by the elf’s quick-witted defenses; so adept at evading attack and changing the field of battle. She was almost tempted to put away seriousness and ask about the feathers. Almost.

“Regarding alphas being turned tranquil.” That single word was enough to shred the laughter from any mage’s tongue. The apostate wasn’t practiced at being gentle, but she tried to soften her tone before she continued, “Is it true that if your kind cannot master themselves they are stripped of their powers?”

“Oh, that.” Neria waved one hand in a halfhearted attempt at being casual. She wasn’t exactly shaken by the subject, but neither was she quite so cocky as seconds before. The mage took a deep breath, then let it out in a frustrated burst. “Yes, that’s true.”

“No doubt the Templars prefer having less competition when the omegas’ breeding fevers strike.” Morrigan’s lip instinctively curled in scorn, her fingers clenching on invisible weapons. One more way for the powerful to exploit their authority.

“Look, I know it sounds cruel but that’s one policy I happen to agree with,” the Warden’s sharp correction was unexpectedly heated. Morrigan didn’t even bother to try masking her surprise. Surana raked a hand through her hair, the one gesture that always betrayed her agitation,

“Have you ever seen an alpha in rut?” The elf spoke quickly now, not bothering to wait for the obvious answer, “It’s already bloody dangerous and now give one of them the power to set a building on fire or rip up the earth? No. That cannot happen. The whole point of being mages is to master our powers. If alphas are driven to be the strongest at whatever they do, it has to start with the strength to control ourselves!”

Morrigan waited for a few heartbeats, respectfully giving the impassioned Warden a few seconds in case there was more she had to say. When Surana had been quiet long enough to be breathing normally once more, she felt it safe to speak.

“And the omegas?” For the first time that she could ever recall, the apostate was willing to entertain the thought that she had been wrong. It was an uncomfortable niggle in the back of her mind and had been happening more and more often where this elf was involved. Much as her pride recoiled at the idea there was also a tickle of excitement, a thrill in even hoping that Neria might be right. Because the world where Neria was right had less fear, less greed and less hate than everything Morrigan had been raised to believe.

“Omegas are never touched in the Circle. Their magic isn’t exactly stable when they’re in heat. One of them had fireballs smashing our entire dorm to pieces before they got her into quarantine. They’re treated with potions and magic until the fever passes. One time—only once in all my years at the Circle—did a Templar dare lay hands on an omega in heat,” the Warden paused to shudder as the clearly visceral memory surged forward. “He got lightning and ice burns over half his body and was immediately discharged from the order. The last anyone heard was that he died of Lyrium withdrawal.”

“Then you’ve never bred an omega?” The apostate abruptly turned to a new question.

“Maker, Morrigan, you manage to make the most wonderfully filthy things sound boring,” Surana groaned but her smile was back in place, playfulness supplanting the rigors of serious conversation. “I’ve never _bred_ anyone. I’ve had sex, I’ve fucked, and I think at least once it probably even qualified as making love. Would you like details?”

As happened so often when they conversed, Neria had become amused and bewildered all at once but showed no sign of discomfort. She seemed perfectly happy to play along and see where Morrigan’s thoughts led. The witch hadn’t decided if that was simply a form of trust, or another example of the reckless foolishness that governed so many of her decisions. She wasn’t entirely certain where this curiosity went, but she felt there was a clue in the way her eyes drifted over her shoulder to the trail behind them.

Ah, yes. That was the key.

“I am merely wondering what will happen when your doe-eyed Chantry girl unbinds her chastity belt,” Morrigan felt a tug of victory in her smile when Neria instinctively looked back towards Leliana as well. The witch decided to drop her voice to a more secretive purr, “For all her innocence, I think she has a great many secrets beneath that façade of purity. And she _is_ an omega, isn’t she?”

“Are you jealous, Morrigan?” Surana deliberately brought her gaze back to the witch, eyes full of taunt and mischief.

“On the contrary,” she easily dismissed the idea with a superior laugh. “I am relieved to know that whatever nauseating emotions hold you captive are actually just instinctual imperative. Saving the world shall be far easier if you can slake your needs with lust apart from any delusions of love.”

“You know, when you say things like that I just get all warm and gooey inside.” Neria pretended to swoon, conveniently falling into the witch and dragging them back into laughter as Morrigan shoved her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, so many chapters without any smut! We're getting there, I promise. In the meantime, please feel free to motivate me along with questions and feedback!


	8. The Moth Sees Fire

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_As the moth sees fire and goes towards flame –Transfigurations 10_

Leliana seldom left the rookery. She needed to be near her birds to receive messages and issue instructions; to sift through the mountain of reports that might be deciphered into a handful of crucial details. There were whispers of a cult in northern Orlais, a chance to sabotage the power of the Magisterium, signs that the Qunari were on the move. Yet, for all her determination and will, Leliana could not stay at her desk.

The first hints of temptation had trickled in from her window, a scent as light and delicate as the breeze it wafted upon. A frigid blast from an ice spell could not have sent a more violent shudder down her spine and she drew blood from her lip holding back a tortured groan. It could almost have been magic, the way she was immediately drawn down the winding stairs and corridors without any sure sense of where they led. She moved like one in a dream, one foot caught in the past and the other barely staying in the present as it raced ahead.

When she stepped through a final doorway she felt momentarily naked. The sun was high and drove away the shadows she’d grown so comfortable dwelling within. Her heart raced to the staccato rhythm of Antivan dances, heavy beats and abrupt stuttering pauses that felt like she couldn’t breathe. _Here._ _She’s here._ Leliana wanted to argue with the irrational feeling, needed to catch hold of it and scream that it was impossible. Neria wasn’t here. She couldn’t be. Which meant that there was no one here that she wanted. There was no one else she was looking for.

As many times as she repeated the logic to herself, the bard could not stop her steps from carrying her forward. The perfume of flowers and sun warmed grass saturated the air, overriding almost any other scent. All but one: something specific on the breeze, unidentifiable but familiar. It tickled her breath into a deep sigh, flowing along her spine like a warm hand gliding to rest in the small of her back. 

Her eyes swept the garden, repeating over and over that she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. She wasn’t straining to catch a glimpse of pale skin scantily framed in loose red fabric. Her ears weren’t tuning out birdsong in favor of finding a deep, velvety tone full of old-world affectations and scorn. Every dark yellow blossom was not a disappointment simply because the flash of color wasn’t the same rich golden shade that had been tormenting her thoughts all day.

She was absolutely, adamantly _not_ looking to find Morrigan.

But there could be no harm in happening to be near her, no?

“Where is the rest of you?” A young voice startled Leliana, breaking her from her thoughts with a suddenness that was nearly panic. She’d let herself slip, hadn’t been paying attention. She silently cursed her foolish mistake.

“I’m sorry?” She calmly turned to regard her inquirer but felt a seizure in her chest the instant she saw him.

Maker, she should have known. She would have recognized him anywhere with that alabaster complexion beneath hair like a raven’s ruffled wing. The line of his jaw, even the bearing of his shoulders all screamed his heritage. Except not his eyes. Leliana bit her tongue to hold back the sudden swell of pain. He did not have the predacious, golden eyes she expected. His were as rich and dark as a well of secrets but wide and open. Those were eyes that she had seen soften with tender words, light up in mischief and laughter, or blaze like the gateway of demons against enemies. They were fixed so intently upon her she could’ve sworn the past was reaching out of his gaze and it rendered her speechless.

“Some of you is missing,” the boy elaborated, brow furrowed as he tried to piece together her mystery. “Was part of you taken away, or did it just get lost? I’ll help you look for it, if you like.”

“A little of both, I’m afraid,” Leliana forced her tongue to work, her voice sounding distant and hollow in her own ears. She swallowed, clearing the emotion from her throat to continue, “Thank you for your offer though; it is very sweet of you.”

His only reply was a solemn nod, far too mature for his true age. No older than ten; she knew that by heart. Her eyes swept over the child, seeing the innocently curious gaze meeting her own without fear. His open face had none of his mother’s guarded pretension, or that condescending mask of superior indifference. He looked like a child interested in everything new and surprising the world could offer; delighted by its mysteries, puzzles and even dangers. That had to have come from—

“Do you like flowers?” The boy interrupted her thoughts. He strolled over to a nearby bush of Crystal Grace, glancing over his shoulder to be sure she followed.

“I do.” Unable to shake the sensation that she had wandered into someone else’s dream Leliana approached the flowers as well, brushing one finger over a delicate blossom.

“What’s your favorite?” There was something like approval in his eyes as he watched her hand stroke the petals.

“What’s yours?” Leliana’s brow twitched upwards, the beginnings of a smile creeping across her lip. She had a few guesses. Dragonthorn, perhaps? Known for strength and magical properties? Oh, but Felandaris would be so appropriate with the way its stalks rose where the Veil was thin.

“Felicidus Aria. I haven’t seen it here. I haven’t seen it in a while.” He looked around the garden then, as if mention of the rare flower might make it magically appear. That trace of hope and sadness in his eyes was heartbreaking.

“The blessed song,” Leliana murmured in surprise, wondering if he even understood the symbolism. “The only flower known to grow on Blight plagued land.”

“It has a sweet smell. Like roses, but even nicer.” The child shrugged off any grander explanation in favor of what really mattered.

“I have always loved roses,” Leliana confessed, memories rolling off her tongue without permission. “But my favorite is Andraste’s Grace. It reminds me of my mother.” _As well as another I love even more._ The bard felt emotion rising unbidden and shook it away, seeking the refuge of a smile. “Is it the flowers that bring you here then?”

“No, I come here to learn. But the flowers make it nicer.” There could be no doubt that in a choice between people and plants which he would choose. _That_ was certainly one parent more than the other.

“Oh? You must tell me what you have learned, yes?” Leliana began a slow walk around the garden, inexplicably delighted when the boy chose to fall into step with her.

“The honeybees prefer common elfroot, the royal breed is not so sweet. That is why it is much harder to find.” He offered facts with the gravity of one unfolding religious doctrine.

“Very clever. What else?” The spymaster felt her other cares and concerns falling away, content to enjoy this opportunity while she could.

“The Chantry mother who is always here in the garden is terrified of honeybees.” Now the scholarly tone was gone from his voice, a naughty amusement dancing happily in his words.

“Then perhaps we must pick some elfroot to carry as we walk,” Leliana whispered conspiratorially, smiling all the wider at the boy’s gleeful laugh.

They made a lazy circle of the garden two, three and four times as he shared the small stories and facts that had been revealed to him without anyone noticing they had an audience. Apparently a few stable hands had planted some of their own ‘medicinal’ herbs beneath a hedge on the south wall. The pot holding Prophet’s Laurel had become the hiding place for a dalish mage and templar to exchange love notes. Just yesterday the Inquisitor and her dwarf friend had quietly come into the garden and shoved something into the leaves of the Rashvine Nettle; it turned out to be Madame de Fer’s small clothes. Truly, Leliana marveled, children would make the very best of spies.

“You must have spent a great deal of time out here to have seen so much!” The Left Hand laughed as he finished describing the massive fireball that Vivienne had spitefully unleashed on an entire trellis. Her voice had relaxed to the point that she barely knew it as her own. She was at ease in a way she had not felt in many years.

“Mother says that people speak with more than their words, so to listen you must use your eyes more than your ears,” he recited the lesson as if it was simply the color of the sky.

“Your mother is very wise.” There was no trace of sarcasm or irony on her tongue. She knew their relationship might be complicated, tangled to the point of impossibility to resolve, but she’d never deny that fact. Truly, her admiration for the woman had grown with every passing minute spent with her son.

“She is,” he agreed, once more with the neutral certainty of one imparting absolute truth.

“Yet I cannot make you learn to be guarded with strangers.” The exasperated words were too laden with affection for actual complaint. Leliana and her young friend both turned to find Morrigan approaching them, a mildly accusatory arch to one brow.

The casual, nearly animal grace of the witch’s movements immediately riveted Leliana’s attention. She could not stop her eyes gliding over the expanse of naked skin, tracing curves and flowing lines of muscle like she was creating a map. Her fingers would follow first, memorizing each sensitive shiver and then—Oh, sweet Andraste—learn the taste on her tongue. The dulled tortures of her fever roiled back to life, vengeful for being forgotten. A sudden oppressive heat cloying on her skin made each breath more of a chore with every step Morrigan took towards them.

“But she’s not a stranger,” the apostate’s son protested in innocence. “She’s your friend.”

“Friend?” Morrigan and Leliana repeated in a shock, affording each other only the mildest glance of annoyance at the unexpected synchrony. No one with any trace of sanity would ever describe them as such a thing.

“What makes you think that, Kieran?” The witch curiously regarded her son. The patience of her gentle question was unlike anything Leliana had ever thought to hear from that scornful tongue.

“She smells like you, and you like her. But,” his eyes turned thoughtful once more, contemplating the puzzle with frustration, “It isn’t actually either of you. Something is missing. Two shapes, three shadows. What got taken away?”

This time when the two women met eyes it was with more empathy, a fleeting glimmer of shared pain passed between them. In the aurous depths of Morrigan’s gaze the bard imagined she could even see a mirror of herself. Shadows of loss and longing danced amidst the burning coals of something dangerous. Leliana darted her eyes away, praying it was swift enough that the witch didn’t divine the thoughts coloring her cheeks.

“We both lost someone dear to us.” The redhead didn’t dare speak beyond that. Morrigan and the Warden’s relationship had always been something of a mystery. To her certainly, and—she suspected—to the both of them as well.

“She has been gone on an important mission for many years,” the witch clarified. The firm line of her mouth refused to tolerate vague ambiguities, particularly not where her son was concerned.

“You loved her.” Kieran was looking at Leliana, but his tone left no doubt that he was addressing them both.

“Yes, I did. I still do.” At least those words felt certain on the spymaster’s tongue. That was the bedrock, the foundation her soul could cling to while the rest of her was torn apart by these internal storms.

“I’ll not raise a gossip, little man.” Morrigan squeezed her son’s shoulder, affectionate even in scolding. “Back to your studies.”

“Yes, Mother.” Kieran obediently trotted towards the tower. Only when he had reached the doorway did he pause and throw a final wave to Leliana. She returned the gesture, a subtle ache in her chest wondering when she’d next see him again.

With Kieran safely away the two women had a space of total silence in which to regard each other. Neither spoke, reluctant to break the spell that still remained in the boy’s wake. They made their way to the garden gazebo; there some semblance of privacy was offered amidst the vine covered beams.

“He is very like her,” Leliana finally broke the stillness. She leaned against a railing, keeping her eyes outward to prevent betraying the tumult of her thoughts. Simply having the witch so close was making it hard to keep her voice even, to stand still while her insides twisted into knots.

“You cannot imagine.” Morrigan matched her position, a tired laugh underlying the reply. Leliana stole a glance at the witch out of the corner of her eye, seeing her gaze fixed on the garden but entirely unseeing. She could feel the present slipping, fading into memories of a decade past, a lifetime away.

There was always a roaring campfire snapping loudly at the cold, and terrible smells coming from the stewpot as Alistair insisted that the weeds were for flavor. Zevran and Oghren’s voices united in an off-key melody as the wine loosened their tongues. The occasional random explosion would promise that Sandal was working on yet another enchantment while Wynne and Sten locked horns (figuratively) about faith.

 In that morass of danger and disorder there was a peace unlike anything any of them had ever known. Ultimately, that could only come from the one figure that strolled through their camp with utter ease. Sly but innocent all at once, dark without being bitter, Surana was the heartbeat of their company. With a friendly word and warm smile the Warden’s contagious enthusiasm and cynical wit never failed to keep them bound to their mission. Because—no matter how they might deny it—they were bound to her.

“So,” Leliana tilted her head to one side, appraising her companion. “Did you love her?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kieran is too precious not to use in the story. And kind of crucial too. Important plot point/shift just around the corner so stay tuned. Also, please keep up the feedback! Questions/comments/requests are a massive part of what helps me keep my head in the game.


	9. Temptations of the Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to update the tags!! I only add new ones when a chapter is up that fills the criterion and I've been waiting to get to this one for a while!

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked – Transfigurations 12:1_

Morrigan knew what the question was going to be. From the depth and timing of the bard’s breath before she spoke, she just _knew._

“Did you love her?” The query held no trace of mockery or venom. Neither malice nor humor graced Leliana’s faint hint of smile. It was a patient but clever curl of amusement that seemed to already know her answer. It sent a knife of irritation scraping down Morrigan’s spine.

“’Tis better to be free of such cluttering and burdensome delusions as love,” the apostate repeated the same dismissive words she’d uttered years before.

She watched the redhead with a superior smirk, waiting for her answer to twist that pretty face into a portrait of scandal or horror. Just like it always had. It didn’t happen this time. Leliana’s lips only pursed together, head tilting to one side as if the breeze was conspiring to whisper her secrets.

“You know, I used to think you believed that. Perhaps once you did.” Even when she was speaking, the bard’s voice had the subtle inflections of a song. “But I saw how you look at Kieran, and he at you. There could never be any doubt in his or another’s mind that he has been raised with love.”

“’Tis altogether a different matter.” The reply was too quick off her tongue, too sharp. It gave away a truth without her intent and she loathed the way Leliana’s eyes danced in victory.

The woman was more changed than Morrigan imagined. She had become something inexplicably dangerous. The apostate resented the way she felt cornered even here in such an open space. Leliana was playing games different to what they knew before, new trickery toying with her mind. Morrigan didn’t like the way her thoughts buckled and warped into strange shapes around the redhead, the sensation that she was chasing something she couldn’t see. Most of all she detested the desperate urge to wet her lips, barely held in check by the piercing blue of Leliana’s gaze following her every move. That crystalline color swirled dark with intrigue.

“You must enlighten me then, yes?” There was nothing scandalous to her words, yet the Orlesian’s dulcet tone had dropped into the secretive sound of a whisper. It rasped over Morrigan’s ears like fingers dragging cloth up skin.

When did this mawkish Chantry girl develop such a predatory streak? And why was it so tempting to answer in kind? The witch dug fingernails into her palms, holding back the lash of magic and . . . and what else she did not know. Leliana was watching her too closely, too knowingly. Morrigan could feel those eyes drifting over her skin like fingertips exploring every angle of her face, tangling in her hair, trailing sharp scratches over contours of naked flesh.

“’Tis not the place for such a discussion,” the apostate let out an irritated huff, turning on her heel to storm away.

 She’d barely stopped herself from reaching for the bard’s wrist, inclined to drag her along, but no. That would be too obvious; to everyone in the garden and especially to the redhead herself. If they were to have this conversation the spymaster would have to prove herself up to the challenge. Sweet and tender Sister Leliana would have to enter the dragon’s lair.

Morrigan stalked through a stronghold doorway, lips twisting in triumph as she heard light footsteps pursue her down the stone corridor. As bard and spymaster Leliana could undoubtedly move without making a sound. Instead, she’d chosen to let the witch know she was there at her heels; just as Morrigan had chosen to let her follow. In her secluded workroom the ebony-haired apostate turned to face her quarry, equally surprised and pleased to see Leliana not only shut the door behind them but lock the bolt as well.

Here they could talk in total privacy. Here they might even be able to be honest with each other. Though for a spymaster and arcane advisor, both women trading in mystery, that did not seem likely. They regarded each other with deadly stillness, gauging their opponent, each trying to see past the other’s mask.

Morrigan was acutely aware that the only sounds were disciplined breaths echoing off the walls, heartbeats as loud and heavy as Chasind war drums. It would have had to come to this, wouldn’t it? The witch felt her lips twitch at the irony. Nightingale and raven face to face. A discomfiting tremor of uncertainty crept beneath her scorn. She knew that in every sense she had the advantage and that the delicate woman before her should be terrified. But Leliana did not look afraid. Nor particularly delicate. The redhead met her gaze with ominous thoughts creating shadows in her eyes and Morrigan felt, in the prickle of sweat and needles along her spine, that she balanced at the edge of a truly insidious trap.

“You must wish to share something very important,” Leliana purred across the silence. She paced the room, eyes trailing casually over the walls as her feet brought her closer to Morrigan in slow, deliberate steps. “You have brought me to a quiet chamber. Small and isolated, no? Difficult to escape if you wished me harm; I doubt anyone would even hear me scream.”

The tease of delight in the redhead’s voice when she spoke, her tongue wrapping around those words with such sinister relish! What should have sounded like a threat of fire and daggers was so clearly the taste of skin and broken sighs. Was it some spell of Leliana’s voice? Perhaps the problem was this confined space, Morrigan’s mind clouding from the warmth and scent that filled every inch, overwhelmed her with each shallow breath. They were close enough now that even in the dim light the witch could see a flush across pale cheeks, the hair framing that elegant face growing damp from heat.

_Heat._ Morrigan felt the answer rise from the deepest part of herself, a knowledge so instinctive it hadn’t even crossed her mind until it was intoxicating her senses. The epiphany twisted her in opposite directions; relieved and horrified and far more excited than she would ever dare admit.

“You have mating fever.” Morrigan’s voice dragged off her tongue, slow and thick as syrup. Just saying the words aloud made her belly twist, something dark and primal awakening within.

“And you’re avoiding my question.” Leliana’s coy smile was everite armor, refusing to confirm or deny the accusation.

“Very well,” the witch squared her shoulders, holding herself back from the impulse to grab the bard and shake her. _Or grab her and find out if that lilting voice sounds as sweet in exultant screams. Her pale body would be an artwork in seconds, scratched against harsh stone, livid with marks painted by lips and hands._ Morrigan shook away such traitorous visions and steeled herself to continue, “A truth for a truth, then? I will answer you in fairness and honesty if you will do the same.”

The redhead paused, considering the offer. Her bow shaped mouth pursed prettily in contemplation and Morrigan silently raged at the universe to hurry because she could only resist so long. Finally Leliana gave a nod of acceptance and the witch exhaled, granted a few seconds of reprieve. That was all she could do: buy her sanity in moments and heartbeats until they wound their way free of this mess.

“You were going to tell me something, yes?” The subtle incline of one thin, red eyebrow told Morrigan she was expected to go first. At least this much was easy.

“I did not love her.” The apostate was grateful to see that her firm assertion surprised Leliana. The bard’s mouth thinned into a skeptical line; a line that was still too sensuous for a real frown. Morrigan found her gaze drifting rebelliously to the succulent shape of those pouting lips. “Not as you do,” she clarified, snapping her eyes back into place. “But I allowed myself to become too close. ‘Twas a weakness.”

She had not intended to reveal so much, the admission uncomfortably heavy on her tongue. Was it the effect of this fevered air corrupting her mind? Or merely a strange power Leliana herself held that plucked truths as easily as the strings of her lute?

“Love is not weak, Morrigan, it makes us stronger and better than ourselves. Even you were willing to take extreme measures to save her life. That was love, no?” A gloved hand lifted towards her face, hovering just beyond reach as the spymaster warred not to touch. Control won out at the very last, leather-clad fingers curling back like they’d been burned. Morrigan swallowed a choking knot of relief and frustration.

“You do not get any more questions until you answer mine.” The apostate stepped forward, unconsciously closing an extra inch of distance. She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, struggling to repeat her demand, “Are. You. In. Heat?”

She hardly needed to ask. From this close she could actually feel the fever radiating through layers of armor. The aura enfolding Leliana was beguiling, kissed with temptation and peril like an entrance across the Veil. Mating fever was the only possible explanation. Morrigan had never wanted the bard, certainly not like this; not in this way that made her knuckles turn white as she clenched her fists to keep from dragging the woman to the ground to ravish senseless.

“Yes,” Leliana’s reply rasped as if she could feel Morrigan’s thoughts. Then a bitter chuckle followed on the bard’s next shallow breath, “I am. But in all my life it has never been like this. For seven years I have endured the breeding fever without the touch of my mate and have not wanted any other.”

“And this time?” Morrigan couldn’t halt the question from tumbling out. They were beyond rules and games now, very nearly past reason but for the thin strands of secrets unraveling.

“This time . . .” Leliana’s whisper died on her tongue, some words beyond speech even for the bard. Yet her mouth was still eloquent when she surged forward to crash against the apostate’s lips.

Morrigan’s gasp of surprise changed shape beneath the silken glide of Leliana’s kiss, becoming a moan of relief that had been stuck in the pit of her belly since the war room. A swipe of tongue against her lower lip begged for more and the witch surrendered willingly to the clever, persuasive spell of Leliana invading her senses. Morrigan had only kissed one woman before and wondered if they all felt like this. So soft while hungry, seductively gentle but insistent like a lover’s plea turned into caress.

Leliana had kissed many women, so very many that she’d forgotten most of them. Yet she knew this touch like no other. There was a familiarity to the passion of it; a demand that promised to consume her whole but would be patiently tender for every single second until she broke apart and begged her lover not to be.

The kiss tasted of rainstorms and magic; like soft clouds and heavy thunder and a breathless anticipation between each spark of lightning on their lips. Just like always. Just like once.

“ _Neria_.”

Morrigan didn’t know which of them breathed the name but she could feel the tingle of it on her tongue as she tore away from the kiss. Leliana’s choke of protest very nearly drew her back, desperate to know what other beautiful sounds she could plunder from the omega’s lips.

“What did she do to us?” Morrigan backed away a step, clawing at the haze of want that kept blurring her thoughts.

 It had to be Neria. She didn’t know what or how, only that the cursed Warden was at the root of this mess. Her rakish smile and laugh was practically ringing in the apostate’s ears. At least when it wasn’t whispers raising goosebumps down her neck. Morrigan’s eyes fell to the long, graceful line of Leliana’s throat, tongue twisting as she longed for a single taste. Never mind defeating an Archdemon and ending a Blight, _this_ was undoubtedly Neria’s greatest achievement. Her crowning victory for glory and gloating to the end of her days: making the Chantry bard and Witch of the Wilds fall prey to this maddening desire.

“It’s me, Morrigan.” Leliana moved with a predator’s grace, closing the distance between them. She breathed deep with Morrigan’s body pressed flush to her own, letting the raven-haired apostate feel every beat and tremor in her chest. “You are succumbing to my heat.”

“Impossible. I’m not a breeder,” the witch protested, taking another pace back. It didn’t even matter that she was in retreat. Her pride, like every other sense and emotion and thought, was drowning under wanton needs that she had to escape. She struggled to cling to the few threads of fact that she knew to be true. Granted, the mating fevers were contagious and betas weren’t immune. But they could certainly never claim to be overcome with lust the way alphas and omegas were; like the way she felt now.

“Neria is my mate. My body is calling for her now more than ever because part of her is near.” Leliana started to move forward but Morrigan was already backing up again. A frustrated growl rumbled from the omega, impatient with either the resistance or stubborn ignorance that kept pulling her prize away.

A violent burst of movement caught Morrigan unaware and she found herself suddenly trapped between a wall and a breathless redhead. The attack should have ignited fury and she was horrified by the soft moan that broke past her lips as the throbbing between her legs tripled. Gloved hands planted roughly against the stone on either side of her, effectively caging the apostate and narrowing her whole world to the deep, indigo color of Leliana’s eyes as she leaned in close.

“You, witch,” the bard’s melodic tone had turned dark and rich. “You carried her child, you carry a piece of her with you always. She’s in your blood as surely as she’s in mine and I can feel her. So can you.”

What Morrigan felt was the leg slipping between her own, the purr that rumbled low in Leliana’s throat when she rolled her hips. Her thigh moved deliberately against the witch’s aching need, unleashing a heat that threatened to melt through cloth and leather as she instinctively ground against the pressure. The omega’s mouth curled in a smile as she kissed along Morrigan’s throat, setting fire to her skin in a hungry assault. Every inch of the apostate was screaming to surrender, to chase the wanton desire and succumb completely to those soft lips as they caught her own. It would be so easy to give in, to drink in this woman until the fires of her body were washed away.

“No.” Morrigan turned away from Leliana’s mouth, panting for air as her heart hammered a rhythm of panic beneath her ribs. You couldn’t drink the ocean, you could only drown. No instinct was etched deeper into her bones than survival; it was that primal urge that slid control back into her senses like the handle of a beloved weapon.

“No?” Leliana’s repeated, incredulous. The object of desire for so many; when had the seductive redhead ever known rejection?

“She is not here, Leliana. Neria’s not here.” The words stung on Morrigan’s lips, burned behind her eyes and she could not fathom if it was for herself or the abandoned omega that she felt such sadness. “This,” she kept her gaze low, not ready to face emotions in sapphire just yet, “Is only a delusion. ‘Tis want for what cannot be.”

Morrigan didn’t have to push to slide free of Leliana’s arms after that, she simply glided away like oil from numb fingers. The bard’s eyes were winced shut, face a portrait of agony as she tried to deny the simple truth. Morrigan didn’t even bother to fight the wave of pity that paused her at the doorway, looking back to the redhead and certain that the proud line of her shoulders concealed misery. An echoing pain hollowed her bones as she envisioned another silhouette bathed in the shadows: lithe and proud, full of boisterous power and patient affection.

Was it really any wonder that they’d both wanted a piece of Neria? Or that Morrigan hadn’t even noticed when the Hero took part of her heart in return?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, finally got the two women alone and a couple of answers out! I love the chemistry between Morrigan and Leliana because it's got fabulous notes of tension, hopefully that was what came through. Please let me know your thoughts. Questions/critiques/whatever, it's all useful and I appreciate the people who've been commenting.


	10. Unshaken by the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it took this long to get to one full on NSFW chapter! Thanks for being patient and I hope it's worth the wait. Also, added several more tags so please review those if you want to know what to expect.

**Ferelden, 9:31 Dragon**

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world. – Transfigurations 10:1_

Warden Surana looked rather attractive when she was flustered. The hue that rose in her cheeks reminded Morrigan of the first time they met in the Wilds, the surprise of a half-naked woman making color sweep all the way up her ears. For all her teasing words and confident charm, there was still an unbearable air of sincerity to the elf. It was almost enough to make Morrigan feel pity for her in this awkward moment. But not quite.

“Trouble, Warden?” The apostate folded her arms, raking her eyes along the length of Surana’s body. This was perhaps the only time she could do so without excuse or apology, and certainly without Neria looking so damn smug about catching her glances.

“It’s not a party trick, Morrigan,” the elf groaned. “I’m not used to doing it on command.”

“Indeed? Yet from what I have heard over so many nights in camp suggests you are _very_ good with commands.” Morrigan couldn’t even count the number of times she had to block out the sound of Orlesian curses and demands. If they could not keep watch, couldn’t they at least keep quiet?!

“That’s different.” Neria’s face turned a deeper red. There was no doubt the blush colored well below her neckline now. How far down did it go? Morrigan’s brow twitched in curiosity.

“Perhaps that would be the solution?” The apostate honeyed her words in contrived innocence. “We could bring your Chantry girl in here with us. I might have thought that a chance to survive battle would be motive enough but if you require an audience?”

Morrigan didn’t hide the wicked curve of her smile, no matter the withering look of reproof Neria shot at her. There was a certain allure to the idea. What would it be like to have romantic, devout Leliana stand by and watch as her chosen mate bred another?

“An audience is not the problem,” Surana protested. She raked a hand through her hair and let out a frustrated huff, “Or it is, but not like that. Do you have to watch?”

“Ah, I see.” Morrigan strolled towards the bed. “Am I challenging you too much? Should I kneel and pretend to be an omega in heat, begging for seed?”

 The mocking words didn’t dance like she’d wanted; rather they stuck to her tongue, rolling heavily off lips that suddenly went dry. She was shocked by the twist of desire in her belly, a sudden longing for exactly what she’d described. To have Neria within herself completely, taking every drop of the alpha’s essence to create life; that would be a power unlike any other.

 “That’s not funny,” the Warden grumbled, blessedly unaware of the sudden primal turn in Morrigan’s thoughts.

“’Tis the purpose, however.” Morrigan wet her lips.

She couldn’t describe or deny the arousal growing uncomfortably warm between her legs. She squeezed her thighs, trying to suffocate the catching coals. Their purpose was to create a child. She repeated the fact inside her head, reaching for the cool indifference that had protected her when she made the offer. They would save the Wardens. They would save Neria. And Morrigan would have her child. Their child. Her breath hitched without warning.

“Morrigan.” Neria took her apostate friend’s hands, worry etched across her eyes. She’d clearly misinterpreted the witch’s sound for some sort of distress. “Are you sure about all this? I mean, having my,” Surana’s tongue stumbled but she quickly corrected herself, “A baby is a massive decision. Riordan is determined that he will land the killing blow. Let the battle fall as it will. You do not have to protect me.”

“I want to,” the honest reply slipped past Morrigan’s lips before she could catch herself. Blast and damnation. Neria’s heroic nature simply would not let her accept a gift without question! The witch let out a frustrated huff.

Morrigan knew this night was going to be intimate, but she hadn’t expected to feel quite so naked beneath Neria’s gaze. Certainly not while her clothes were still on. Her fingers moved without permission, unconsciously turning to weave with the elf’s. The complicated tangle of emotions that had been building within her for months gradually unraveled with Morrigan’s defeated groan,

“I have grown fond of you, Warden, in ways I did not expect,” the apostate admitted. “No matter how I fought, you have become important to me. I do not want you for myself, not the way your insipid bard does. But the thought of having a piece of you?” Morrigan paused once more, lost for a moment as she wondered if the child would have Neria’s eyes or voice, or the dimples that revealed themselves in her smile like a secret treasure. There was a tremor of emotion in her words that she didn’t bother to hide, “’Tis appealing. Should the worst happen tomorrow, or at any point in the future, I would have comfort in knowing a part of you will live on.”

The witch steeled herself for the inevitable mockery that had to respond to such a confession. She silently abraded herself with every sharp rebuke her mother had ever used to strike foolish notions from her head. So many months of being the voice of reason in this haphazard company of heroes, all that time spent arguing with the Warden’s insufferably heroic streak and Leliana’s soppy sentiments, and here she was infected with the worst of their weaknesses. Very well, she had lost. She would accept defeat and its price with whatever dignity she had left.

“Morrigan,” Neria’s gentle plea pulled the witch from her thoughts. A delicate touch of fingers beneath her chin brought her attention back to the Warden, only then realizing she’d been deliberately looking away. The elf’s eyes—usually never more than a heartbeat away from sly tricks and twinkling laughter—were deep wells of emotion, drawing her in. That bottomless gaze stripped her of doubts and hesitations and Morrigan fell into it inch by inch until her lashes fluttered shut with a brush of lips.

Of everything she knew she must do this night, Morrigan had forgotten completely about kissing. Even if she’d remembered she would not have expected it to be like this. The first soft caress was a question, followed by a promise. A breath of wonder escaped Morrigan’s lips and Neria pressed closer, dwelled longer to savor every new taste and sensation as she learned her would-be lover’s mouth.

Even with a roaring fireplace the chamber had been cold and remote, like an apothecary’s work room or the tents on a battlefield waiting in sterile silence for the wounded to be dragged in. That vanished with Morrigan’s words as if she’d broken an ice spell. Now the Warden could fill the whole room with warmth and emotion as they explored this new dance together. What began as a life-saving ritual had been turned inside out, becoming an actual expression of feeling.

“I don’t deserve you,” Neria murmured between kisses, voice laden with tenderness and awe.

She gazed at the witch with such open admiration. Not the roaring fire of lust and devotion that she shared with Leliana but a glow all the same. Here was the mirror of Morrigan’s own affection, a bond she could understand. It was mutual respect and solace, the passion to be close and share themselves with each other.

“Perhaps not,” Morrigan agreed, her smile befitting a demon as she leaned close to Surana’s ear to breathe, “But I’m going to enjoying punishing you, all the same.”

“Maker, Morrigan,” Neria’s teeth clenched on a shivering moan. She captured the witch’s mouth again.

Their kiss was hungrier this time, rising with the eager ferocity of hands tugging at clothing. Breezes raised goosebumps in the wake of fingers yanking Morrigan’s scant garments free. She felt the Warden’s hum of victory on her tongue as feathers and lightning played over the naked skin of her back. The elf’s tunic felt rough against her breasts, sensitive peaks tight and aching. Her fingers clawed at cloth, shoving the chafing material out of the way and swallowing Neria’s sigh as smooth, soft flesh molded together.

Surana’s hand roamed over the shapely swell of the apostate’s backside, lifting in a silent command. Morrigan complied, biting at Neria’s lower lip as she willingly hooked her leg over the elf’s hip. The position opened up the quivering apex between her thighs, like wind to a fire feeding the heat that pulsed heavy in her core. Without any thought, Morrigan arched her back, seeking friction, groaning happily when her clothed sex met hard pressure.

 The witch broke free of their kiss in surprise. Hard pressure, and rather large as well. There was no denying the smug expression on Neria’s face as she rolled her hips, the firm hand on Morrigan’s ass making her grind against the swell in the alpha’s pants.

“I see you found your confidence.” The witch’s voice was coal and honey even as she teased, “Or was it motivation?”

“I just call it what I’m going to fuck you with.” Neria’s hips bucked forcefully, shattering Morrigan’s playful reply.

“Not on the floor.” The argument cracked on her tongue, sounding dangerously like a plea. Her treasonous body left her with little doubt that she would give into Surana on the floor, in the Dark Roads, or on the back of the Archdemon itself. But while she still had a few fragile strings of control, she wanted something more. Something . . . memorable.

Mercifully, the Warden understood Morrigan’s unspoken need. Setting the witch back on the floor she guided her towards the bed, the timing of hungry kisses and awkward steps continually distracting one from the other. Morrigan found a weak spot on Neria’s neck, delicate skin that tasted of spring life and summer heat. A scrape of teeth against the sensitive pulse point made the elf shudder, frozen long enough for the apostate to spin and shove Surana onto the bed. She landed with a yelp of protest, clutching for the woman who’d already darted away.

“Have patience, Warden,” Morrigan’s throaty assurance halted Neria from rising, promised that she wouldn’t have to wait long.

There were lamps burning on either side of the doorway, along with the crackling fireplace casting flickering shadows all over the room. A wave of her hand sent frost-bitten wind to wipe out the flames, allowing night its rightful beauty. She turned back to the bed, eyebrow quirking up at the sight of the Warden reclining naked in the middle of the sheets.

The elf lay against the pillows, skin etched with interlacing flourishes of dark ink and faintly glowing lyrium. The magical markings gave the illusion that her whole body was pulsing in anticipation. Morrigan’s eyes trailed down flowing lines of muscles and curves, resting on the stiff length that jutted so brazenly from between her thighs. Pulsing indeed.

Morrigan’s tongue darted across her lips, sauntering towards the inviting display. With each step deft fingers worked the fasteners of her remaining clothes, shedding armor and fabric until only a necklace and wrist guard shielded her skin from Neria’s devouring gaze. She crept onto the bed, ego purring as the alpha’s darkening eyes followed every movement. Tiny shivers welcomed the apostate as she prowled up Surana’s body and she reveled in the breath that caught behind the elf’s lips when they were close enough to kiss.

Neria lifted up to catch the witch’s mouth and let out a low growl of frustration when Morrigan shifted away. She knew she shouldn’t enjoy this power so much, the thrill of teasing another’s want. It was too irresistible though, like everything else about this woman. Morrigan leaned past the Warden and blew out the candle.

“Uhm,” Neria’s clearly confused voice rose from below her, “I know you said it was a dark ritual, but I didn’t think you meant the actual absence of light.”

“Hush, your eyes will adjust.” Morrigan found the Warden’s lips for a quick promise, “There is light enough to see what matters.”

In the moonlight, she could see the expression on Neria’s face as she straddled her hips, gliding along her length. The elf’s mouth parted over shallow breaths as Morrigan explored the feel of the alpha sliding through her folds. The pressure pounding along that thick shaft spread into her, amplifying each pulse of heat gripping her core. Another roll of her hips and another drag along Neria’s throbbing fullness, coating her in fragrant lust. The Warden’s eyes were winced shut, maintaining whatever rigid control kept her hands gentle as she held Morrigan’s waist.

“Warden.” Morrigan’s thumb trailed over Surana’s panting lips. “Open your eyes.”

The soft words were far too delicate for a command. A longing from some pit in her heart called Neria to focus on her; to be present as her hand reached between their bodies and wrapped around the alpha.  Now the smoldering coals of Surana’s eyes were all she could see. They were locked on each other like a spell as she guided the tip to her waiting entrance. Her soaked folds parted around the swollen head, muscles clenching in resistance as she eased Neria into her body.

Despite the wetness that spilled out of her in welcome, the stretch forced her to go slowly. She’d rarely allowed herself to be taken, let alone by someone of this size. _Clearly, alphas’ reputations were well earned._ Morrigan bit her lower lip, willing her body to open, to reach past the tiny stings of pain for the pleasure she could almost taste.

Neria either saw or sensed the witch’s discomfort. Magic trailed over her flushed skin with the Warden’s fingers; tingling, electrifying her nerves. Sparks drifted across the small of her spine, along her ribs, circled her breasts as the elf coaxed Morrigan’s body into a steady hum of warmth that slid ever lower. Her insides turned molten, trickling down Neria’s length as her fluttering muscles eased, swelled, and suddenly blossomed open. Morrigan sank down; taking her lover all the way in with a moan from the very depths that the alpha was touching.

The witch rocked her hips, savoring the sensation of their joined bodies, squeezing to explore the fullness pulsating against her inner walls. Surana was barely holding still, teeth dimpled against her lower lip as she held back sounds that were suspiciously close to a whimper. Morrigan leaned forward, catching the Warden’s mouth in a kiss of permission. Neria’s hands flew to the flare of the apostate’s hips, gripping tight as they began a slow, heavy rhythm.

Morrigan’s eyes fluttered closed even as her mouth fell open over ragged breath, the thick shaft stroking places she’d never felt. She braced herself against Neria, bodies molded together and lips trading kisses as she met each thrust, hips rolling faster as she silently begged for more. A rumble from the alpha’s throat answered her demand, hands shifting to palm the swell of her ass and force her down harder into each buck of Neria’s hips. The sound of mouths and moans and slapping flesh ricocheted off the walls, music set to the racing beat of her heart.

She was so close. The alpha was all but splitting her apart, full of the heavy pressure pounding for release. Shudders wracked the apostate’s body, inner walls clinging in desperation as a twist of need in her belly became a sob.

“More,” Morrigan’s voice barely broke free of the lust choking her, “Warden— _Neria—_ please!”

The elf’s name was a magic spell all its own, unleashing a burst of power and Morrigan was suddenly on her back, Surana’s hips driving into her like a battle to be won. The strong hands beneath her ass lifted her up, finding the perfect angle and she cried out with every stroke that reached her deepest place. Slips and bursts of heat were trickling out of Neria’s tip. Every drop that coated her quivering walls felt like a promise, a taste of the fullness she would only know when she’d taken everything the Warden could give. When her body would ripen and swell with Neria’s seed.

“Yes,” Morrigan hissed in excitement, the Warden echoing the sound as nails left red welts down her back. “Yes, Neria . . . I want this, you.” Morrigan let her words fall free without thought, interspersed mindlessly with ragged attempts to catch a breath, air constantly stolen away for cries of pleasure. “Give me everything,” the plea made Surana lose her rhythm, thrusts becoming animal and desperate as she feverishly pounded into the witch. “Come for me, Neria _—fill_ me.”

That last, strangled gasp turned into a keening note as a dam burst free and she was swept away in the rapture flooding from her core. She didn’t hear the answering groan of relief, or the guttural, agonized stutters of sound that accompanied each rough buck of Neria’s hips as the alpha came undone. But she felt the thick streams of the Warden’s release, the way it coated her inner walls and set her shuddering muscles into new spasms of ecstasy. Her quivering sex clamped down greedily, milking everything she could take from the elf and relishing the broken curses that poured from Neria’s tortured throat. Each burst of heat felt like a pinpoint of starlight pouring into her, filling her up until she’d swear her womb was aglow. A smile unlike any the witch had ever felt spread across her ravished lips. _Our child._

Morrigan eventually felt the mattress shift and she fought to open her eyes. She’d lost sense of time, her whole being heavy with languorous content. Cold air rushed over the front of her body as the Warden pulled away and gently lay down at her side. Surana’s breathing was still little more than shallow pants but even in that labored rhythm Morrigan could hear a hint of laughter.

“That was,” the elf’s hoarse voice had to pause, momentarily at a loss for words before she simply chuckled, “You’re really something, Morrigan.”

“Indeed, I am.” The witch forced herself to sit up, sheets clinging to her sweat-soaked skin. She moved to the edge of the bed but was halted by Neria catching her wrist.

“Going somewhere?” Surana’s playful inquiry masked a more subtle hint of disappointment that made Morrigan’s heart ache.

“’Tis my room, Warden,” she pointed out the obvious with her best tone of disdain. “I will help you find your things.”

“So now I’m ‘warden’ again?” Neria teased, a smile masking the hurt in her eyes. “Is that why you’re kicking me out of bed?”

“Neria,” Morrigan softened and corrected herself, she owed the woman that much. She struggled to think past the tangle of emotion that kept threatening to complicate everything, focusing only on what mattered right now. Her eyes searched for understanding in the elf’s face as she pointed out the obvious truth, “We are not the sort of lovers to wake up in each other’s arms.”

“That may be,” Surana conceded with a pensive air. Then a sharp tug on the witch’s arm pulled her back down, the Warden swiftly pinning her to the mattress with a grin. “But who said anything about sleep?”

The elf’s mouth began a systematic assault; from Morrigan’s lips to her throat, down to the valley between her breasts, she waged her war in persuasive kisses. The witch felt a purr of laughter roll off her tongue, her body surrendering to the skillful attention. They had tonight, after all. And tonight they had this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you uncomfortable commenting on NSFW material, trust me, it's almost as uncomfortable as ASKING for comments. But chapters like this are the most difficult (for me) to write/edit/review without feeling like I'm losing touch with the scene. So please, I'd appreciate thoughts and feedback - even if it's just criticism over excessive use of the same words. Also, for the morrigan/warden shippers out there, let me know if the emotional connection rings true enough for you.


	11. Nothing Can Break Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, smut, more smut and angst.

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Nothing can break me except your absence – Trials 1:6_

Leliana had thought she knew all the tortures of fever sleep. Dreams of wanton pleasure and greed that turned into nightmarish agony; suspended on the precipice of release but never able to fall. Skin on fire with ghostly touches from the past, laughter and sobbing tangled in her chest as her love—her _mate_ —returned to her for moments that couldn’t last.

Some nights the dreams were vivid memories of before; first times or familiar indulgences, as slow and elaborate as those luxurious hours of seduction had been. At other times it was nothing more than disjointed pieces; here the quirk of an eyebrow, there the caress of a thumb on her cheek, a plump lip caught by teeth, the sharp feel of a hip bone, tingling magic on her tongue, the tantalizing arch of a throat releasing exultant curses. Everything was fractured and nonsensical like a shattered vase put together by a child.

Dawn sunlight found the redheaded omega writhing on her sheets, naked skin glowing from fever and exertion. Her fingers clawed at damp linen, scrabbling for purchase as her hips rolled in a silent, primal dance. Panting breath parted her coral lips, Neria’s name falling free as she twisted and shuddered. This was one of the better dreams.

_Grey Wardens didn’t fight fair. Leliana groaned, tightening her grip on the scratchy cloth of the bedroll. Her fingers ached for the touch of flesh, to feel muscles tensing, to leave bruises like beacons announcing her claim. The mouth pressed between her legs had stopped her. That wicked, blessed mouth plundering her for every taste of nectar and moan of need had no right to smile so beautifully when making such demands. There should be no tongue so slippery and clever and sweet that it could play over her sex this expertly yet be so merciless._

_No marks, no bruises, no bites. For one night. It hadn’t been a command, or even a request; Leliana could’ve ignored either. In Neria’s knowing smirk the tease became a challenge: a night of love and passion that left no sign in the morning light. What had sounded simple in the theory of words became impossible when fingers and lips began their calculated, irresistible assault._

_A note of laughter vibrated along the elf’s tongue and Leliana’s thigh’s clenched around sharp ears. The bard knew that sound from the battlefield; the gleeful, gloating chuckle that came just before brutal victory. Neria’s tongue was joined by a finger, then replaced by two. Slow strokes spread and massaged her from within, hooking deliciously each time she pulled away as if the Warden were beckoning her climax._

_“Yes . . . Neria, I need—,” Leliana’s hips arched to meet her lover’s touch, melodious voice breaking on notes of strain. Her nails dug into the abused bedroll, fibers tearing in the archer’s grasp._

_Attuned to the bard’s internal war, Neria reached up with her free hand and untangled clenched fingers. Leliana seized the offered grip, clinging to her lifeline as Surana's tongue slid up to find the hard jewel throbbing for attention._

_“Blessed Andraste,” her voice quaked at the touch. She wrested her other hand free from the bedroll, reaching for the Warden. She’d damn all rules, challenges and games to the Void so long as she could anchor fingers in her lover’s hair as she came undone. Clutching for the elf’s tousled mane Leliana was startled by sleekness, unable to make sense of the tightly ordered tresses that offered no purchase. A cold pit opened in her belly a split second before she wrenched her eyes open, assailed by the sight of Morrigan’s feral beauty buried between her thighs._

“Maker Above!” Leliana burst up, heart racing like she’d just evaded dragon fire. She panted for air, dizzy and disoriented from the fever’s havoc with her sleep. Stray hair clung to her lips and she brushed it away, cursing the violent shaking of her hands.

 It was only the third day. She fell back against the crumpled sheets, bitter realization rolling across her mind and crushing what little hope had remained. Even if she were blessed by the Maker himself there were still at least two more days to survive. Without Neria, but now with her as well. The tease of her presence in Morrigan was a torment that gnawed at the omega’s very soul. Her scent was on each breeze, her taste lingering on the redhead’s tongue; the witch was a hook in her belly fighting her for every step, every breath. A knife of frustration twisted Leliana’s insides and she knew that prayer wasn’t going to be enough today.

“’Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,’” the familiar litany of scripture was raw across her lips. Trembling fingers traced the valley between her breasts. “’I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm,’” the words stuttered, hand tickling down her stomach. “’I shall endure,’” she bit back a moan at the first graze inside her thighs. “’What you have created, no one can tear asunder.’”

The effort of holy thoughts died on her tongue as her fingers slid between slippery folds of swollen flesh. She concentrated on keeping the touch patient; languid and tender like the strokes Neria had so loved using to explore her, soaking up and spreading her arousal. Fingers dipped into her, just enough to feel clinging, wet heat greedily tug at the tips. Two, three, four times the elf deliberately eased Leliana open only to slip away and play in the nectar she’d coaxed free.

The redhead’s jaw ached from clenching back curses and they finally broke free on a gasp when two fingers plunged into her. The muscles of her belly and thighs tensed as Neria’s touch found just the right spot, stroking until Leliana’s hips rocked in time with each thrust. The bard reveled in the intimacy of her lover’s hold. Cradled close against the elf, their bodies could press together along every inch and limb. Neria stole kisses and nips, murmured sweetly as her lips moved down the redhead’s offered throat. Her tongue laved attention on the pulse point that beat so rapidly as fingers moved faster, urging Leliana to the edge of release.

An unexpected tickle of cold against her chest disrupted the rhythm. A bite of ornate metal was digging into the bard’s skin like the teeth at her shoulder. The heavy feel of Morrigan’s necklace stole her breath, pressed tight between their molded breasts.

Leliana barely recognized the growl of frustration that tore up her throat. She yanked her fingers away too roughly, irritation masking a wince of pain. It wasn’t enough that the woman held her senses hostage and invaded her sleep, now she couldn’t even be free of the witch in her fantasies! The redhead shuddered as she recalled the vivid sensation of Morrigan’s mouth on her skin. Very well, if her body would not forget the stubborn apostate’s lips then she'd simply evade her by other means.

Orlesian bards (the successful ones) are well-versed in many creative pleasures, and Neria had been a wonderfully open and agile lover. Leliana cupped her sex, a soft hum of satisfaction behind her lips. She’d make due with emptiness so long as she could reach a sliver of relief. She ground into her palm, visions of the elf’s sinuous body rising above her. Their legs intertwined, tumblers of lock and key fitting together gracefully. She mapped the shape and strength of flexing thighs as Surana rolled her hips back and forth, spreading shared wetness until their flesh glided together like oil. Leliana bucked into the pressure, moaning as her throbbing bundle of nerves sent faster and heavier pulses into her core.

The Warden’s rapt attention drank her in, savoring every twitch of muscle and sway of her breasts. Neria could ravish her with a look hungrier than any caress. The intensity of it sent chills and heat shivering over her skin, the trail of that gaze licked over the redhead like fire. Golden fire, like the heart of a flame. That color had been absolutely mesmerizing as it smoldered. Morrigan’s eyes were intoxicating pooled with lust, dark but glowing as they devoured Leliana trapped naked beneath her.

“Maker take you!” The redhead clenched every inch of her body, forcing away the image of Morrigan above her and the gaze that had wanted to swallow her whole. She knotted her hands in the sheets, waiting for her traitorous body to still. The pit in her core had grown into the belly of a dragon, fiery and ravenous with demand.

Her thoughts were muddled, disjointed, but sped by pure fury. She would not be defeated by Morrigan; not in arguments or ideals, not in battles or romance, and certainly not in her own skin and desires. Her eyes had rebelled, taken captive by the witch’s spell. It didn’t matter. There was one memory that the raven-haired woman couldn’t invade, not with her feel or taste or looks.

The night she and Neria bonded had felt much like this. The thick haze of her heat blurred the outside world, narrowed the universe into this all-consuming need to take and be taken. She rolled over on the bed, back arching as she offered herself. Three fingers plunged in, nothing close to the stretch and aching fullness of her alpha’s generous size but enough. In this desperate state she’d take anything, keening into the tangled sheets as Neria set a fast, hard rhythm. There was no foreplay, no teasing or seduction; just the smell of lust and sweat stinging on their skin as they struggled to break each other apart so they could fuse into one.

The supple flesh of Neria’s breasts pressed to her back, small points of hardness where her peaks were tight and aroused. The elf’s breath was hot and sweet against her cheek as she showered kisses and love-bites across Leliana’s flushed skin. She was so close, inner walls clamping down and milking for every ounce of pleasure she could take.  Skilled strokes kept hitting her front wall hard enough that it made her legs weak. Maker, she wouldn’t be able to hold herself up to take Neria’s knot. In whatever seconds or minutes it took to reach that ultimate pleasure she’d be nothing more than a boneless, shivering mass of flesh begging to be filled.

Her lover read her thoughts through the quakes of her body, the sharp gasps punctuating each slap of skin. A strong arm wrapped beneath her waist, drawing her even tighter against the driving thrusts. Lips nibbled over her ear, punctuating with a murmured, “Not yet.”

The words sent goosebumps and ice down her spine. Neria’s voice was usually light and warm, clear and strong as summer sun. This sound purring against her cheek was smoky; luxurious like secrets and power rasping over her cheek. _Morrigan._

Leliana cursed, sobbing, but didn’t stop. She was so near her release that she could taste it; just as she tasted dark lips catching hers in a kiss, the rich feel of the witch’s tongue drinking in her moans. It didn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter that it was Morrigan’s fingers plunging into her, wringing pleasure out of her quivering inner walls like a due. Leliana whimpered, the urgent roll of her hips begging for more.

“That’s it,” the apostate’s velvet tone slid across her cheek softer than before, the want in her voice almost a plea. Lips and tongue feasted on the omega’s sweat-slick skin, returning over and over to her shoulder. Her lover's breath drank her in with fast, shallow pants, echoing the desperately needy sounds that kept tumbling from Leliana. Whispering praise entwined with hungry touches and the bard her body felt succumbing to the witch’s spell.

 “You’re mine now, Leliana.” Morrigan’s teeth scraped the taut muscle near her neck, tearing a long, sweet note of relief from the omega as her inner walls shuddered and wept in ecstasy.

Leliana trembled and whimpered in the apostate’s grip, Morrigan holding her tight through the aftershocks and coaxing a flood of nectar to trickle into her palm.  The bard felt herself lowered completely to the bed, sheets cold and clinging to damp skin. Fingers pulling free set off another helpless tremor. She was empty again, but not so painfully consumed by the hollow in her belly that felt like  monster trying to gnaw free.

“You sing beautifully for me, Nightingale,” Morrigan’s purr against her ear faded along with the witch’s touch.

Leliana was alone in her quarters, vaguely aware of a sore wrist and sticky fingers. She rolled to her back, body stiff and the burn between her thighs protesting how roughly she’d chased her need. She stared at the empty ceiling, listening only to the frenzied beat of her heart and tortured breaths. There were still two more days to go.

Unconsciously, she lifted a hand to rest on her shoulder, fingers grazing the scar that was as hot and tender as on the day it was made. With anguish Leliana forced her tongue and lips to move, to twist words out of the raw emotion choking her heart.

“’Though I bear scars beyond counting,’” a quiver that was almost weeping shook her voice and she swallowed it back, squeezing her palm tightly over Neria’s mark. “’Nothing can break me except your absence.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Leliana's going through the wringer here but I hope she's still not coming off as OoC. We're closing in on the key portion of the story very swiftly, so please keep helping me out with thoughts and feedback. Observations about characters/story/dialogue, any questions and criticisms are all helpful for me to use as I wrestle through the next few chapters. Thank you all.


	12. Those Who Wander in Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst is ratcheting up a notch or two here. And it's a long chapter, just warning everyone.

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Many are those who wander in sin – Transfigurations 10:1_

Ambassador Montilyet had once successfully hosted a soiree at which twenty-eight of the attendees were feuding, fifteen were engaged in affairs (including two love triangles and a ménage-a-trois) and three were nearly assassinated. Never mind Baron Rimbaud bringing a brothel girl as his escort, only to find that she was actually a _he_ who had entertained a number of the more adventurous guests. It would, therefore, be fair to say that Josephine could handle awkwardness. Maker, she could grab it by the ear to be hauled outside for a paddling. But even she was out of her depths.

If it had just been silence she could handle it. Josephine had a repertoire of lighthearted stories and innocent gossip that could make the most taciturn audience burst into tittering laughter.  It wasn’t silent, though. Letters and reports were passed back and forth across the war table as Leliana and Cullen pondered and debated enemy movements with their usual interchange of cunning and concern. It was the ruthless efficiency of words and gestures that prickled Jospehine’s worry. Their war table meetings were hardly a cheerful or celebrated affair, but there was usually an air of camaraderie, an ease that allowed them to trade smiles and quips as they frantically tried to keep the world whole.

This morning the mood of the room felt ominous, charged like thunderheads building into a storm. The ambassador kept expecting to see sparks and pops of lightning each time someone spoke or shifted. Particularly Morrigan. When she’d first arrived at the table Jospehine worried the woman might be ill. The flush of her cheeks could not be healthy and she very nearly volunteered the services of a physician. A tiny voice of instinct held her tongue at the last moment, recognizing that perhaps this was a beast that shouldn’t be prodded. The intensity radiating off Celene’s arcane advisor threatened to burn holes into anything she touched or looked upon. Blessedly, that dangerous gaze stayed fixed unwaveringly on the map.

Leliana wasn’t much better. Try as she might, Jospehine could not ever remember seeing her friend’s charms so weary. The redhead’s eyes didn’t reflect the smile forced across her lips, the lilting music in her voice ringing a little sharp each time she had to speak. Her gaze also had a stubbornness to it, much like Morrigan’s. Sapphire eyes moved deliberately—strategically even—in long glares and darting glances. Not once, Josephine realized, did Leliana look anywhere near the witch.

The previous morning’s argument had been heated but surely it could not have created such a rift so swiftly? The Antivan’s quill began to tap absently on her pages as thoughts moved in a flurry. She knew only a handful of details about the advisor that had so recently joined their company; even less about her history with Leliana. A diplomat’s success could hang on the balance of a single piece of information and Josephine suddenly found herself wishing she’d asked the bard for more details of her adventures during the Fifth Blight.

She also wished Lady Trevelyan weren’t running late. The Inquisitor had a way of absorbing disquiet and drama, gathering the energy of a room and redirecting it with purpose. If she were here perhaps the air would not feel so oppressive, humid and clinging like Antiva’s summer monsoons. Josephine fought to stand still, to not fidget in the uncomfortable sensation of her skin shrinking too snug for her bones.

The others felt it too, she was certain. One quick sweep of her trained eye spied Morrigan’s hands woven together so tightly that the knuckles were white, Leliana’s fist gripping the edge of the table as if she might either fall or send it flying; even Cullen looked unnerved as he wiped at beads of sweat on his brow. They were all either intentionally or unconsciously pretending nothing was wrong. It was a ritual dance of pride and etiquette; so deeply engrained that not one of them dared step out of rhythm with the rest.

“Alright, everyone I—,” the Inquisitor burst through the door with her usual energy but instantly recoiled like she’d been hit with dragon fire. “Holy Maker, _fuck_ no!”

Trevelyan dove from the room in a blink, one moment there and then only a door slamming shut on her heels before anyone could react. Josephine was the first to recover from shock, racing after Elyn and barely noticing the massive sigh of relief that escaped her as soon as she was outside that room. The Inquisitor was running at full speed down the corridor, a display of athleticism Josephine had not seen since the Haven attack. Even mired in confusion she could not help admiring the grace of it.

“Inquisitor! What is wrong?” The ambassador called out with as much dignity as urgency allowed.

For a moment she feared her voice hadn’t carried, or that the words weren’t enough to pull Trevelyan back. Then the Inquisitor stopped at the far end of the hall, barely visible in the shadows. Josephine approached, swift but wary, noting the labored rise and fall of the woman’s shoulders. Elyn’s fingers were curled tight on the door handle, her other hand pressed firm against the wood, caught between fight and flight.

“Ambassador Montilyet,” Trevelyan’s voice sounded like it was being dredged up from a well. “Please dismiss the advisors. Inform Cullen that I’ll meet with him later about troop deployment.”

“As you say,” Josephine nodded, trying not to let worry bleed too obviously into her tone. The Inquisitor was not a woman who cared for being fussed. Still, there was something about the noble’s tortured pose that pulled her hand to rest on one shoulder. She was grateful when Elyn didn’t pull away and she squeezed slightly, offering what comfort she could, “Shall I ask Cassandra to come find you?”

It was no secret that the Inquisitor and Seeker were close, an unlikely friendship blossoming between them despite their early days of distrust. Lady Trevelyan leaned on the Nevarran warrior more than any of their other allies. If there was trouble now, something causing the woman distress, Josephine was certain Cassandra would want to know. A violent tremor shook through Elyn, making the ambassador wonder if her innocent suggestion was miscalculated.

“No,” Trevelyan shook her head, even if the glint in her eye screamed otherwise. “But tell her to confer with Leliana. She’ll understand.”

“Very well, Your Worship. Will you be alright?” Josephine hesitated to voice the concern but her heart would be absolutely merciless with complaint if she did not at least try. The sincere worry in her tone either calmed or galvanized the Inquisitor because she stepped back from the door and stood straight, her usual armor of confidence gliding back into place. It never failed to make the Antivan’s heart skip a beat; seeing the will and power that Elyn used to carry the fate of the world on her shoulders with a smile.

“I just need some fresh air. I’ll be fine.” the Inquisitor assured her, one hand gently squeezing the dark fingers on her shoulder before pulling them away.

Josephine gave a reluctant nod, accepting the minimal answer and glad to have received even that. She watched Lady Trevelyan stride out the door and exit the main hall. It was remarkable the way everyone automatically parted around her, not because she loomed tall and intimidating, or out of deference to a ruler’s pride; they moved the same way sand dissolves before water and water parts for wind. It was natural to yield to the Inquisitor’s presence, and inevitable to fall into her wake.

Seeing that unconscious display Josephine was reminded just how little she knew of the instincts that ran like an undercurrent through their world.  Her stylus made soft scratching sounds as she scribbled a quick note for herself, a task for later.

_Research: alpha and omega breeding classes, traditional and ~~aberrant~~ , ~~irregul-~~ , exceptional._

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Tarasyl’an Te’las had been a place of magic. A sacred site of elven ritual so timeless that its power seeped into the very stone. Whatever structure had once touched the sky at the top of the Frostback Mountains had no doubt been full knowledge and ornate beauty to rival Arlathan. Unsurprisingly, it was leveled by humans. Fereldans, in fact. A people that loathed magic and distrusted elves almost as much as Orlesians. Fiercely independent and given to fits of provocation, the dog lords of Southern Thedas were practical, strategic and—above all—cunning. All qualities that were masterfully woven into the fortress of Skyhold.

There were seven possible routes to Leliana’s domain in the topmost levels of the tower. Three were ancient concealed passageways known to herself and a few agents. For these she offered a prayer of thanks since they enabled her to pass to and from the Rookery in total secrecy. Two more were possible only for the ravens or fools willing to risk death. Several assassins had proven as much by underestimating the sheer walls and leaving horribly colored messes in the courtyard below. One she’d permanently blocked in order to maintain advantage. That left the stairs, giving her ample time and warning of any and every footstep making approach.

The spymaster refused to let her eyes wander impatiently to that entrance now. A report from Farrier sat directly in front of her face but, try as she might, she could not see a single word. She kept seeing the lithesome shape of Morrigan’s figure sweeping into the war room. The split second of emotion that sparked between them before both determinedly looked away. Andraste preserve her, the combined scent of arousal had nearly been suffocating with the witch standing just across the table. It had been gratifying—intoxicating even—to know the other woman was also at war with her desires, simmering lust bleeding through cracks in her calm. Leliana so longed to move closer, to feel the heat between them spiral out of control with every inch of space she invaded.

A firm grip on the war table had been all that kept her from going weak, melting to the floor, burying her fingers in dark tresses and yanking the witch’s head back to lick the line of her throat. Wicked questions danced around her mind in the flames of lusty gold, wondering if Morrigan had dreams like her own. She reveled in the thought of the witch tearing at her bedsheets in frustration, mouth suddenly dry as she imagined the pale flesh of shapely thighs clenching tight around a feverishly working hand. Could Morrigan feel that she’d been in the omega’s fantasies? Was there some supernatural awareness in the throes of fever that told the apostate she’d had Leliana screaming release into her pillow not even an hour before?

“You sent for me, oh Mistress of Mysteries?” Dorian’s jaunty tone matched the pace of his feet springing up the stairs. At least now she could stop pretending to read the damned report. She watched the magister’s brilliantly coifed and gleaming hair crest the stairwell, striding ebulliently into her sanctum. It was twenty three paces from that threshold to her desk. She’d counted. He was still nineteen steps away.

 “Yes, I need your assistance.” Leliana stopped just short of saying ‘help.’ She had long since pummeled her ego into check, but during fever—with instincts bristling and weakness presumed—her pride had a way of slithering back out. Besides, it was inaccurate. There wasn’t anyone that could actually help her.  No one other than— _No._ She refused to let the raven-haired sorceress steal her thoughts once more. Dorian was seventeen paces away.

“But of course! Anything for our dear—,” at fifteen paces Dorian jerked to an abrupt halt. He winced, visibly wavering as his entire body rapidly aligned to a new but familiar tune. When his eyes opened again they were shadowed, awash in sympathy. He cleared his throat, voice hoarse but lilting with amusement as he repeated quite sincerely, “ _Dear_ keeper of secrets.”

“I have never hidden who I am. It has simply never been important.” Leliana dismissed the accusatory hint of glee in his words. She had never bothered to conceal her breed; just as she had never made a secret of her bardic training, her faith in the Maker or her absolute love for her mate. These were the traits that made her who she was and she did not regret a single one.

“Until now.” Dorian resumed his approach more slowly now. There was no bounce in his gait as he moved forward with the strategic, alert caution of one entering a battlefield.

“Until now,” she had to concede that much. To gain information without sharing too much was a delicate balance, an art that made words dance lighter on her tongue, “I thought perhaps you’d have some different insights, given that Tevinter has not been shackled by Chantry doctrine for quite some time. What has the Imperium learned of omegas and breeding fever?”

“Off the top of my head?” Dorian stroked his chin pensively, eyes roving the ceiling before fixing on her with a little more fire than before. “Absolutely sod all. Tevinter is obsessed with producing a bloodline of magisters that can bring Thedas to its knees. As such, all their knowledge and resources are rather tied up in alphas. Omegas are just a means to an end.”

“I see.” Leliana accepted the bitter answer with poise. Only the slightest downward twitch of her lips betrayed the crushing disappointment behind her mask. She was already forming words of escape, some charming tack that would end the conversation and erase any hint of curiosity. Before she could speak Dorian’s hand pressed gently over hers on the desk, the open emotion in his gaze momentarily rendering her speechless.

“But I’ve made a life’s work of helping my own kind, Sister,” he used the religious title far more warmly than she’d ever heard, lending it a depth and meaning beyond Chantry terms. “There is very little in an omega’s life that I have not seen, or could not understand.”

The tacit invitation was not forceful; there was no trace of demand. Dorian released her hand and sat back on a crate near her desk, content to wait. He radiated the patience of one who already knows every answer and simply needed the universe to find the right question. Truth was at the edge of her throat, an agony of longing waiting to be spilled but unable to make a sound. Words came to her tongue; each time held back by the deeply entrenched need to keep an advantage, to hold details like playing cards in a game.

“Have you heard of,” she spoke slowly, testing the weight and shape of her question before it left her lips, “A three-partner mating bond?”

 “It’s uncommon certainly.” There was a frisson of triumph in seeing Dorian’s brow twitch with surprise. He recovered gracefully enough, folding his arms as if about to address an unruly class of initiates,

“Here in the south I would imagine it’s completely unheard of, but in the Imperium—as I mentioned—magic and blood rule all. There have been a number of unions in which two alphas are bonded. Usually to align family power,” his mouth turned into a grimace as if he’d swallowed bad wine. In fact, she’d seen that exact scowl of distaste at the last diplomatic supper when he was forced to endure Ferelden claret. Josephine’s warning glance was all that stopped him from spitting it into his napkin. The memory made her smile ever so slightly, made it easier to breathe as she hung on every word of his answer,

 “However, to produce children for the line a third mate had to be involved, generally an omega but not always. In those cases the mating bond no longer remains exclusive. Rut or fever would affect all the partners equally. Even if one was, say, a beta woman.”

What might have been an innocent example became far too specific in the way his eyes riveted onto her. The subtle hint had scored a perfect bullseye and he knew it. She hadn’t twitched, hadn’t even blinked, yet there was no denying the way her heart skipped without permission. A slight tilt of Dorian’s head was confirmation that he’d felt the spike in her blood; he’d suspected and now they both knew.

 Before Leliana could correct or rebuke the magister for such assumptions, another set of footsteps announced themselves on the stairs. This gait was faster, confident and intense. _Cassandra._ The spymaster released her annoyance in a puff of air. It was too much to hope that her ally wouldn’t have gotten word of the unusual happenings that morning.

“Leliana, what did you do to the Inquisitor?” the Seeker demanded before she was even all the way up the stairs. “Josephine is beside herse— _oh_.”

The Nevarran had covered the distance in a much swifter stride than Dorian and she hit the invisible cloud of arousal with a marked shudder. She grabbed at her belt, uncorking a small flask and releasing a pungent scent of herbs and spices. Cassandra wiped the suppressant oil beneath her nose, nostrils flaring as she took several deep, calming breaths. Leliana instinctively made note of the vial, seeing that it looked fairly new and yet the slosh of liquid inside sounded low indeed. Had the Left Hand started carrying that emergency measure a few days ago when this plague began? The bard’s mind—sharp in spite of the fogging heat—turned with idle wonder and a trace of mischief. Might her friend have sought out the tonic some time ago to deal with another temptation entirely?

Cassandra adopted the same wary approach Dorian had used, easing into the fevered air.  A quick glance passed between the warrior and magister, senses speaking rapidly to each other in a language of instincts. Dorian had moved closer to Leliana out of reflex, a natural defensiveness tightening his spine and spreading his shoulders wide. The Champion of Orlais was not one to back away from challenge, but neither did she press her advantage. The calm and discipline of her gaze finally won out, convincing the Tevinter omega that she wasn’t a threat.

“Josephine’s rather confused urgency makes more sense now,” the Seeker’s brusque accent had thickened and slowed. Words were clinging inside her throat no matter how she tried to clear them and she finally gave up, surrendering to the rumble that rolled so seductively off her tongue, “At least the tea is preventing you from affecting the betas.”

“Most of them, it seems,” Leliana muttered bitterly.

It was difficult to remember that Morrigan was a beta. Her mind stubbornly refused to fold around the wrong word for the right shape. She couldn’t think of the apostate as anything other than the woman her body was calling for, the sweet water that could slake endless thirst. Leliana pinched the bridge of her nose, willing herself not to give into dizzying weakness as another spike of need hammered at her bones.

“Do you want me to make a tonic?” Dorian’s voice cracked under the intensity of that last surge of heat. His smile was strained, artificial hope trying to mask pity. He knew the answer just as well as she did.

“It is far too late for that,” Leliana shook her head, wiping away beads of sweat beneath her hood. Suppressant medicines were useless unless taken right at the first onset of a mating cycle. To take a tonic now would be spitting at a forest fire. Never one to hide from her mistakes, the redhead couldn’t help sighing, “I suppose I should have listened to you when this began, Cassandra. Perhaps then I would not be in this state.”

“I am not so sure. You are much worse than I have ever seen.” Cassandra wasn’t quite so convinced. Hanging unsaid between them was the weight of shared memory. One stronger than any other: the Grand Cathedral, Left and Right Hands newly acquainted, the omega’s first fever without her mate. That heat was the crucible which tested the metal of their alliance. She’d slept with a dagger in each hand, only to emerge in the morning and find the Nevarran warrior had kept guard outside her door.

“I am.” Leliana’s confession dropped from her lips with the finality of boulders crashing off a mountain.

 To say it aloud was to make space for the truth, to subtly alter and warp the shape of her world to make a place for this new reality. The fever had ravaged her senses and was rapidly stealing her wits as well; filling the shadows with memories, desires and despair. The bottomless pit of demand was draining her soul and she felt, with every fiber of her being, that she was near to having nothing left to give. She was breaking.

Which only made it worse that Cassandra was near. They’d formed an unspoken pact during that first heat together; Leliana impressed with the Seeker’s protective vigil, touched by her concern. Awe for the warrior’s honor and resolve had grown into an appreciation for her unshakable faith, the passion that fueled her service to the Maker. Studying the Nevarran now, with seven long years of trust and understanding between them, the omega wondered once more if Cassandra couldn’t end her torment.

The Right Hand was a woman of formidable spirit; dynamic and beautiful in a way that left many a stunned admirer in her wake no matter how she scoffed at the idea. It would not be so difficult to take solace in such a familiar affection, to be enfolded in the most disciplined strength she’d ever witnessed. Cassandra was not gentle or patient by nature but she had beaten her passions into submission. Was it so terrible to long for that power to be her refuge now?

“What do you need, Leliana?” The warrior asked as if she already knew the direction of her friend’s wandering thoughts. Between her words was the tacit offer, hesitant but genuine, voice brimming with selfless concern. Leliana couldn’t help but be moved by that willingness, knowing full well that the Seeker had no interest whatsoever in such a prurient indulgence.

 _Always so noble, this one._ Leliana’s eyes swept over the Nevarran, dragging along each inch of Cassandra’s battle-honed shape. She searched for any trace, the faintest spark of desire that might redirect her runaway thoughts. It was useless. The woman was family. A sister in faith and a genuine friend; the bard could no sooner bed her than the Divine they’d served. Even if that were not the case, it wouldn’t matter. It could be Josephine, or the Inquisitor, or a demon of Desire from across the Veil and she’d remain completely unmoved. There was not a lick of want anywhere in her body that wasn’t consumed with—

“Morrigan,” the name rasped off her lips without permission, dredged from the depths of her being. Reality contorted and stretched once more, her ears ringing with the shameful truth as it filled the air.

“Celene’s witch?” Cassandra was understandably bewildered. The suppressant oil had no doubt done its job, preventing her from detecting the scent of the apostate lingering on Leliana’s skin. The Seeker’s eyes darted to Dorian for answers, receiving only a grim nod of confirmation.

“The Maker has a sense of humor, no?” Leliana’s laugh tasted sharp, ironic. She shoved away from her desk and stalked to the open window. Deep breaths of icy air stung in her lungs but couldn’t erase the warm fragrance of that woman clinging to her from within. After all they had been through, everything she’d survived, nothing felt closer to divine punishment than this impossible need wrenching her apart, gnawing at flesh, soul and bone.

“Do you want,” Cassandra paused, clearly wrestling with the very idea of the words she was about to say. Leliana felt a tug of affection curl her lips; without turning around she could perfectly see lines knitting the Seeker’s brow. The warrior released a sharp breath of frustration, as she often did just before laying into an attack. “Do you want me to fetch her?”

Leliana rested both hands on the stone at either side of the window, bracing herself against another buckling twist of greed. Her feverish mind conjured long arms wrapped tight around her waist, tugging her back against a willowy frame. The tickle of Neria’s laughter on her cheek became a throatier purr, plum colored lips leaving marks down her neck in a slow, methodical exploration. The witch didn’t know her weak spots, not yet; there was a beguiling fascination in her touch, unraveling the mysteries of Leliana’s body like an ancient spell.

“No.” The redhead was adamant, no matter how the word tore her mouth. Morrigan had refused her.  Pain ripped down her spine just thinking of it, fury and anguish choking her throat. Even the ravaging ache and delirious hunger of her heat was more bearable than facing that agony twice. “I want,” she wrestled her voice, jagged and dark as the Deep Roads. “I _need_ you to pray for me.”

That, ultimately, was all anyone could do. In the helpless pity that Cassandra and Dorian were trying so poorly to mask, she saw that they knew as much. The Seeker gave a short, decisive nod before fixing her eyes on Leliana with  sad admiration.

“Very well. I will. Andraste protect you, Leliana, and Maker hold you close.” The old blessing might have been rote and clichéd from anyone else, but in Cassandra’s devout tone it rang with faith and promise. On that note, the Seeker turned on her heels and left.

“Or at least send someone who will,” Dorian added, following after the Seeker with only an exasperated shake of his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm not just torturing Leliana for fun. Relief is in sight, it's just taking some effort to bend two incredibly stubborn characters to the story's will. Please, as always, let me know what you thought.


	13. Stumble on the Path

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see. –Trials 1:15_

If there was anything close to a cure for breeding fever, Inquisitor Trevelyan decided it had to be this terrible, potent concoction that Iron Bull had gotten her addicted to. She wasn’t convinced that ‘maraas-lok’ meant drink, though. In fact, from what little she could piece together of Qunlat, she was pretty damn sure the name had something to do with nothingness and glory. Those were the most common themes in all things Qunari-related anyway; well, that and blowing shit up. Come to think of it, the stuff tasted like whiskey laced with black powder. Maybe that was why it burned so badly.

“Bull?” Elyn pondered her mug, trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

“Yeah, boss?”  The mountain of a man next to her shifted. He noticed her gaze and saw the problem immediately, chuckling as he filled the empty tankard once more.

“That’s it! Thanks,” Trevelyan cheerfully saluted him, toxic liquor spilling over the edges of her cup and scorching the table.

“You know, I’ve seen strapping soldiers three times your size pass out on half of what you’ve had so far.” Iron Bull had a way of sounding concerned and impressed all at once. It was the same as his warning shouts in battle, not just aware that a chunk of flaming rock was about to crash into them but _excited_ about it.

“Good. Inquisitor has to keep up a reputation, right?” Elyn flashed her infamous, cocky smirk. At least, she thought she did. She couldn’t feel her face. Which also meant she couldn’t feel anything from the neck down.

Damn good thing, too, because she’d barely made it into the tavern in the first place. Fucking omegas. Fucking fever. Fucking woman out there all hours of the day pummeling the snot out of training dummies like she wasn’t already beyond perfect. Trevelyan felt her stomach muscles clench; a shiver down her spine stabbing through the comfy, sedated haze of alcohol. Right, not a good idea to have ‘fucking’ and the Seeker together in one thought. She took another deep draught of liquid fire.

“That’s not all you’re keeping up.” It really shouldn’t be possible to wink with only one eye, but somehow the Qunari managed. The Inquisitor shifted uncomfortably, aware that even if she couldn’t feel it anymore her pants were too tight in all the wrong places.

“It’ll go away.” Trevelyan steeled herself, absolutely resolved not to glance down and be reminded of the . . . situation. She and her more willful body parts had come to an understanding years ago; a rather mutually beneficial arrangement, in fact. And _now_ this had to happen? Now she had to feel like a bloody adolescent on the edge of first rut? 

“It doesn’t though, does it?” Iron Bull inquired, the tilt of his head genuinely curious. “Not all the way.”

“Just ask, Bull,” Elyn sighed, resting her chin in one hand to enjoy the show. The indomitable Iron Bull, Ben-Hassrath agent, commander of a mercenary company, conqueror of many a Chantry sister; and here he was trying to be polite. Maker save them all.

“You’re different even for your kind, aren’t you?” Bull’s voice was surprisingly sympathetic.

The depth of his tone rang with familiarity, a sense of being just on the edge of acceptance but never quite part of the whole. Trevelyan’s eyes fell to the table, recalling the smell of gaatlok stinging her nose as exploding pieces of dreadnought sailed through the air. She often had to remind herself that she wasn’t the only one living on the outside anymore. The whole Inquisition was built on the shoulders of outcasts.

“Depends what you think my kind is.” The Inquisitor gave a half-hearted shrug, studying the sizzling liquid in her cup. “Between me and other women there’s just a bit of plumbing. Ins and outs together instead of an either/or situation. But if you’re talking about me versus other alphas it gets a lot more complicated.”

Elyn’s jaw stung as her teeth clenched, the subject bringing back bitter words and loud arguments. There was no one definition of alpha. Other than ‘wanker’ anyway; that one was pretty universal. She’d decided early on that being aberrant wasn’t a curse, no matter how people spat the word. It meant she didn’t have to be what anyone expected; the freedom to enjoy a world of opportunities others would never know.

 Unfortunately, that didn’t mean anyone else shared her view. Certainly not male alphas who feared and despised everything she represented. Not even the female ones either, not always. Trevelyan frowned, a line etching into her brow as she glared at nothing. She’d never allowed for the thought that another alpha woman might take a radically different stance.

“It’s all new to me. Qunari don’t even have a word for alpha or omega breeds. They were eliminated from the bloodline centuries ago.” Bull imitated her shrug, but in his massive form it was like an avalanche of muscle.  

“Probably just as well. Rut would really screw up the Qunari reproduction program.” Elyn drew away from dark and cumbersome ideas, turning easily back to the refuge of laughter. Iron Bull and Varric were two of her favorite friends simply because they never lingered in sober thought if it could be avoided. They never lingered sober period.

“Yeah, you look like you could do some serious damage,” Bull’s graveled chuckle joined her, eye moving very deliberately downward with a grin.

“Don’t worry, big guy. I’m pretty sure no one around here can compete with you.” Trevelyan tossed him a knowing wink. Maker, the things she’d heard in Haven! Thank the heavens Skyhold had more space and thicker walls for blocking out the sounds of sisters screaming worship. Never mind some of the more recent, distinctly baritone praise.

“You have three seconds to get your massive, well-muscled backside off that bench.”

Speaking of baritone. The Inquisitor fought to keep her smirk from spreading too wide as both she and Bull looked up to find Dorian storming towards the table. Their debonair friend was looking delectably flustered.

“Are omegas always this bossy?” Iron Bull shot a glance at Elyn.

“Three.” The magister was beside them now, arms folded and an impatient cock to one eyebrow.

“Yes, they absolutely are.” Trevelyan nodded firmly. She picked up the scent of fever clinging to the man’s skin like an ethereal caress of desire on the breeze. The pressure between her legs returned, throbbing with a vengeance.

“Two.” Dorian’s eyes were flashing dangerously, tiny beads of sweat framing his face.  He must’ve been exposed to the heat for a while. Much longer than the split second of torture she’d encountered in the war room. If her brush with Leliana had set her body into this epic revolt, what could it do to another omega?

“One.” The Qunari unfolded from his seat, rising to tower above the magister with a glint of challenge in his eye. There was no mistaking the tremor that shook Dorian as he looked at the mercenary like a starved man facing an Orlesian feast. Bull kicked back the rest of his drink, throwing an apologetic glance to the Inquisitor, “Sorry, boss. We’ll pick up again later.”

“No rush,” Elyn nodded, content to turn back to her tankard and its promise of oblivion. Dorian apparently had other ideas. The magister’s dark hand grabbed her wrist, forcing her to look back up at his decidedly agitated face.

“You have a serious problem, Inquisitor,” the sharpness and clarity of his tone could only come from someone too impatient for games. “We’re going to lose a spy network and probably the entire mage’s wing if you don’t do something.”

“Like what?” Trevelyan shot back, a trifle defensive in her frustration. She’d suggested Leliana take time off from her duties. She’d sent Cassandra to the omega on the off chance that their history might provide a solution (and Maker, she’d had a terrible time trying not to think about what _that_ might entail). She’d finally taken refuge in an isolated corner of the tavern to drink herself into a stupor because the last thing the Inquisition needed was an alpha leader in rut. She was officially out of ideas.

“Go talk some sense into one of those impossible women before all of Skyhold burns to the ground. And if that doesn’t work fuck them both.” There was an iron in Dorian’s tone that left no room for argument, no matter the shock of such extreme words.

It was, without any doubt, the worst plan she’d ever heard. A strategy for very messy suicide at best. Unfortunately, Elyn really couldn’t think of any other options. In the fire seeping through her veins, infected just by the transfer of contact, she knew the swaggering magister was right. If she didn’t do something this mating fever would set all of Skyhold ablaze.

Dorian saw her tiny nod, assurance enough that she accepted his verdict. Without further distraction the omega strode purposefully towards the tavern’s back rooms, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to confirm that Bull followed in his wake. The Qunari offered Elyn one last, helpless grin before he was dragged through a doorway.

The Inquisitor eyed the contents of her mug; contemplated finishing what she’d come here to start. Blacking out beneath the table sounded a damn sight more appealing than getting in the middle of a fevered assassin and sorceress’ mess. After all, the world was ending. What was one more crisis in the chaos?

With a frustrated grimace she set the mostly full tankard down and climbed to her feet. The floor rolled slightly, but didn’t succeed in knocking her back on her ass. Good, she’d need her wits if she was going to do this right. The world was ending tomorrow or perhaps the day after, but it was her job to hold everything together today. One sodding, ridiculous, impossible step at a time. Trevelyan started to leave the tavern but, at the last moment, doubled back to grab the bottle of maraas-lok.

She might need a weapon.

0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0

_Should’ve brought a sword_. The Inquisitor regretted her oversight more and more with every step that drew her closer to Morrigan’s door.  One of Blackwall’s maces would’ve been good too. Or, oh, one of those monster warhammers that the big darkspawn were always swinging around! She was pretty sure they’d brought a few back from the last trip into Valammar. Maybe with a weapon that big on her shoulder she could finally bludgeon some sense into—

Trevelyan jerked to a halt, startled by the violent turn of thought.  Foreign angers had infested and taken charge of her mind, stoking her blood to a seething boil. This wasn’t her; Elyn felt her heart racing and muscles coiled tight enough to sing. This was dark and aggressive, demand frustrated and power denied.

Alpha.

Her instincts quivered like plucked strings, tense and humming through every fiber of her being.  She took a steadying breath, calming the primal voices that bristled and snapped at the scent of challenge in the air. At least this much was familiar. The feel of someone encroaching on her space from a hundred feet away, hair standing on end because every shadow held an attack,  the sense of self and ego swelling to command attention. This she could understand. Here she knew she had control.

Trevelyan rolled her shoulders, shaking off the tension that kept wanting to stiffen her spine as she arrived at her destination. There were small tricks for keeping her alpha instincts at bay; things like knocking on a door to the rhythm of naughty song, for example. _Shave all the hair off . . . your tits!_ As long as she could smile there was no threat of snarling.

“Go away.” The words might have been muffled by the wooden door, but there was no mistaking the command. 

“Who?” The Inquisitor leaned close to the door to shout her reply, pleased to hear a muttered curse.

“Anyone!” Morrigan’s voice had a resonance to it, the roar of beasts trapped beneath her skin.

“Oh, well I’m not just anyone.” Trevelyan swung the door open confidently, marching into the witch’s chamber. “I’m the Inquisitor.”

The room spun for a moment as Elyn struggled to keep her bearings. The overwhelming rush of smoldering heat she’d expected. It was the confusion of needs tangling her instincts into knots that made it hard to think. The apostate was a beta, she would’ve staked her life on it. Yet the entire space around Morrigan pulsed with primal tones. The air was charged with the strength and command of a formidable alpha. Her skin exuded enticing warmth and promise like an omega in heat. It was a miracle the woman wasn’t violently trying to fuck herself senseless.

The Inquisitor had never felt anything quite like it, the conflicted sensation of impending attack woven with an electrical charge of excitement drawing her closer. She moved inch by inch, hyperaware of Morrigan’s every twitch and breath.  Golden eyes followed her, reminded her of torches glowing in the Deep Roads’ eternal night.  Elyn kept her hands in plain sight, low and open. She’d even tossed her liquor aside, sod it all.

There was a torturous balance in this dance; standing tall but not threatening, entering space without filling it. She had to erase any challenge without sacrificing her authority; then maybe she’d have a _chance_ of making this fierce woman listen to her.  Trevelyan had done this her whole life.  It never seemed to matter if they were generals or soldiers, nobles or thugs; alphas always had to play these games. Like being pricks with each other would prove who had the bigger dick. She usually came out the winner simply because she let the others wear themselves out while she kept her calm.  And because hers was the biggest.

“What do you want?” The witch’s voice was nothing more than edges and gravel, a hard swallow betraying the effort of her control. It was impressive the way she was clinging so tightly to shreds of composure, but Elyn could see the tiny tremors threatening to rip her apart. This wasn’t what an alpha in rut looked like, the Inquisitor knew as much firsthand. Alarm ate across her thoughts, erasing any trace of a smile.

“I want to help,” Trevelyan kept her voice neutral as she stopped a safe distance away. Far enough to prevent Morrigan feeling attacked; close enough to study all the symptoms ravaging the witch.

There were lines around her eyes and rapid twitches of muscle; a sheen of sweat made every inch of skin glow like a forge and her heart pounded so fast and hard that it made the Inquisitor’s pulse echo. This was worse than mere fever. She’d seen it before when her omega sister took a mate without permission. They were separated during her heat and this was exactly what it looked like; it very nearly killed them both.  Breeding cycles were brutal, but nothing compared to the viciousness of mating instincts when they were denied.

“I doubt there is anything you can do,” Morrigan scoffed, turning away with an air that didn’t just dismiss the Inquisitor but discarded her completely.

Elyn curled her fists, fighting the urge to reach out and shake the woman. A coppery tang filled her mouth, warning her that she’d drawn blood inside her lip as she silently warred with herself for a plan. If Morrigan refused to see her as an ally then that left only one option. The Inquisitor knew it would work. She also knew it would probably get her killed.  Bloody Dorian and his big ideas.

“There is one thing,” Trevelyan stated forcefully, putting enough command in her voice to drag the woman’s attention back. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I can’t let one omega’s heat cause this much disruption. I’m going to take care of it.”

“Take care of it how?” Morrigan’s snapping eyes fixed on her so tight she could almost feel fingers grabbing her tongue.

“How do you think? I’m an alpha.” Elyn hoped an arrogant shrug concealed the distaste creeping into her tone. “Maybe not the right one, but at this point she won’t care.”

Her mouth filled with bitter ash just shaping such words but she steeled herself, relieved to see the glint of jealousy flashing across Morrigan’s gaze like sparks of violence in a storm. The witch wanted to hurt her. That was good. Sort of.

“Leliana may have many annoying weaknesses, Inquisitor, but infidelity has never been one of them. She is mated.” The apostate prowled closer, voice slipping into the dangerous sound of a hiss.  The very idea of what Trevelyan was saying had coiled Morrigan’s body like a whip about to strike. Was it the suggestion that the redhead would cheat on her mate that so incensed the witch? Or the thought of it being with Elyn?

“She’s an omega in heat, Morrigan.” _Maker forgive me._ The Inquisitor swallowed back any hint of doubt. “At some point they’re all the same. They just want to be bent over and bred and it doesn’t matter who’s doing the fucking.”

“That’s not true!” Morrigan’s fury hit Trevelyan with a barrage of magic, blasting her across the room. Elyn slammed into the far wall, vision spotting for a second after her head cracked on stone. The apostate was on her before she could respond, clawed fingers squeezing her throat while the other hand charged a spell.

“Of course it’s not true!” The Inquisitor shot back, words strangling as she choked for air. She had to close her eyes, to concentrate on not seeing red and fighting back. Her fingers scraped at the wall, grabbing for anything that felt like restraint. Morrigan had to realize she wasn’t fighting anyone but herself.   Elyn’s tongue felt swollen and numb as she forced out what words she could, “But it’s what you’re trying to tell yourself, isn’t it?”

Shock twisted the color of the witch’s eyes, very nearly masking the dart of guilt beneath. She released Trevelyan, instantly backing away as if struck. Her attention stayed fixed on the gasping Inquisitor, wordlessly demanding answers for the chaos of confusion and horror swimming in her gaze.

“Leliana isn’t going to let anyone else near her, Morrigan,” Elyn clarified, massaging the bruised flesh of her windpipe. The witch still didn’t look quite convinced and Trevelyan pressed on, determined not to lose after coming so far,

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” the Inquisitor shook her head in sympathy. Honestly, the Maker himself probably didn’t understand this kind of shit-storm mess. “But I know someone who’s been scent marked. I know the feel of a mating bond. You can be stubborn and cost me two of my most important advisors while the world burns. Or you can just admit that you hate the thought of anyone else putting their hands on her and damn well go _do_ something about it.”

It took the last of Elyn’s self-control to not simply scream ‘go fuck her.’ Morrigan’s chin lifted and gaze turned to sharp steel, telling the Inquisitor her message had gotten through anyway.  Nothing more needed to be said. The tension in the room was still thick enough to ignite on a single spark so Trevelyan grabbed her dropped bottle of alcohol and left without another word.

She drained half the liquor as she made her way out of the mages’ wing, desperate to burn the stench of challenge and alluring heat from her senses. Her stomach was still tying itself in knots, clenching against an invisible grip. Her whole body ached to be lost in warmth, to sink into soft flesh and taste salt on her tongue.  The Inquisitor bit her lip, blushing at the needy sound that managed to slip free.

The courtyard was too full of people, too many others in her space chafing like enemies closing in. She hurried across, doing her best to avoid notice. If she could just get somewhere quiet, somewhere alone, then she could breathe. She could subdue the alpha instincts raging in her blood, the primal urges that kept picking up every single damn tone and scent on the air. Oiled leather, blood-stained metal, Chantry candles and a lingering, exotic kiss of some far away land. Elyn froze like her feet had grown roots to the ground.

She was only a few paces from the main tower stairs. Which meant she was a few paces more from the training yard. The Inquisitor’s mouth went dry, every drop of moisture seeping into beads of sweat along her spine and the liquid need rapidly pooling between her legs.  The swing of a heavy blade crashing into the training dummy reached across the distance and slammed into Trevelyan’s chest.  Her lips parted helplessly over a stunned gasp, utterly transfixed by the sight of Cassandra lost in her exercise.

The Seeker brought intensity to everything she did, raw power filling even the silences that held her temper in check. But nowhere was that fervor more obvious than in the physicality of combat. So much strength and passion united, the warrior’s entire body given over to a single harmonious goal.  If Cassandra could harness such energies for battle, what might she be capable of without the need for control? What would she be like when discipline and danger were broken away; when all that remained was her instincts, gloriously unfettered and free?

As if sensing her audience, the Seeker paused her training and turned. The Nevarran’s eyes found Trevelyan without bothering to look anywhere else. She’d known exactly who was watching.  Even from this distance catching the woman’s gaze felt like a physical touch, a clash of swords in the first moments of a duel. The Seeker felt it as well; Elyn knew by the way her friend’s eyes dropped to the ground. The warrior shifted, adjusting her grip on her blade. When Cassandra looked up again it was with a patient smile, an expression of affection offered with sadness. Trevelyan felt the blow like a bruise to her heart, just like every other time the Seeker gave her nothing more than apology.

The Inquisitor forced herself to nod, suddenly numbed beyond all care. She tossed off a cocky salute and headed up the stairs. The bottle was empty before she reached her chambers. This day simply couldn’t get worse.

 

 

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this digression into the Inquisitor didn't detract from the main story. I wanted to add some dimension to the effect of Leliana's heat, as well as show an outside perspective on the situation. If there's any doubt/confusion about what Morrigan is experiencing, please point it out or ask questions so I can know where to add detail or tighten the story to communicate more clearly. As before, thank you to everyone who's provided feedback already and I appreciate all thoughts/comments/critiques.


	14. Touch Me With Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to get a new laptop this week, which harried my usual schedule quite a bit. I've edited this twice since posting but if you see grammar/punctuation/spelling mistakes (or any other annoying error) please let me know.
> 
> NSFW. Big time.

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Touch me with fire, that I be cleansed. –Transfigurations 12:4_

Morrigan moved most comfortably in the void of shadows. Between flickering lights she found stealthy passage like slipping across the Fade. Minutes and hours had crept with the dying sun across her floor, an agony of eternities waiting for the refuge of night. Now clouds obscured the heavens, an unexpected protection from even the prying gaze of stars. She could not suffer anyone in her path, to have any interruption to the steps that led her surely up the sleeping stone of the central tower.

She’d never walked these corridors, had not so much as set foot on the floors beyond where she was needed in the war room or main hall. Yet her feet were unwavering, following an invisible path as surely as dragged by tethers. Pinpricks of heat formed rivulets along her skin, palm slick when she reached for balance against the wall of the stairs. The world was painted in black and white, color bled out but also flashing too brightly in bursts of sensation that threatened to blind her completely. She was still below the rookery but felt a pull in her chest, a tremor like licks of fire meeting air and setting the world ablaze.

The apostate’s feet moved with the speed of her quickening heartbeat, finding herself all too soon in the lair of ravens, the domain of Sister Nightingale. Birds in their cages set off a cacophony of warnings; wings fluttering and cries shrill, heralding danger without any ability to flee. In the middle of all the noise and chaos—with a calm of absolute discipline—sat Leliana at her desk.

Morrigan stared at the woman, tongue darting unconsciously across her lips to taste invitation on the heavy twilight breeze. The redhead knew she was there. As spymaster Leliana was undoubtedly alert to any person that set foot within a hundred paces of her sanctum. But as an omega she’d sensed the witch from the very base of the tower, instincts calling for her to come. Head down and eyes fixed unseeing on some nuisance in her hands, the bard’s entire body shivered in time with the sigh that escaped Morrigan’s lungs.

“We have nothing more to say to each other, no?” There was a slither of metal in Leliana’s tone, a blade coming unsheathed. She didn’t even look up, refused to acknowledge the overwhelming force that already had Morrigan striding across the room. The bard’s defenses were iron and ice; formidable certainly, but neither capable of withstanding flame.

“No.” The apostate rounded the desk, invading the spymaster’s space without hesitation.

She grabbed the woman’s shroud, a swift gesture yanking away the offensive hood. Morrigan hadn’t even realized how much she hated that damnable piece of cloth, despised it for concealing the Chantry girl from her memories. Leliana pushed to her feet, forcing the witch back a pace. Sapphire eyes snapped like rune stones, charged with magic and threat. Her red hair caught the candlelight, becoming a fiery halo that matched the battle-ready flush on her cheeks. Oh, she was definitely what Morrigan remembered, everything and more.

“What do you want?” There was so much anguish in Leliana’s demand, anger and frustration tangled thick around a single thread of plaintive need.

The witch traced one finger over a cheekbone fine as porcelain, marveling at how the woman struggled not to lean into her touch. A twinge of emotion she couldn’t identify fluttered beneath her breath. It felt like the memory of something happy long gone, but with the promise of being within reach once more.

Her eyes darted to the bard’s mouth. Their kiss from the day before still seared across her senses, ravishing her for endless hours long after the touch was gone. Leliana’s lips were just parted, barely open as if a stuck sound were trying to break free. A question perhaps, some argument or scathing insult that would give the weakening omega back a sliver of control.

“This.” Morrigan pressed in and stole any thought of words from the spymaster’s lips.

She’d hoped to capture silence, to buy precious seconds of time and find an answer in the tempest swirling her mind. She couldn’t think. Not with the soft welcome of Leliana’s mouth drawing her in, beckoning her closer and deeper until she tasted the moans parting their lips. _This._ Her entire being filled up with the certainty and relief of victory; surrender and triumph melding in the heat of that kiss.

Morrigan didn’t realize she’d wrapped her arms around Leliana until she felt the bard suddenly stiffen and pull away.  Her hold tightened instinctively, determined not to lose what had begun. Harsh metal and buckles bit into her naked skin as she felt the bard tremble against her in silent war. Leliana stopped trying to break free but refused to let the apostate capture her mouth again, one perfect lip pinned cruelly between her own teeth.

A growling protest rolled in Morrigan’s chest, vexed and bewildered at being denied. The urge to take boiled up inside her, impatient and selfish need raking in her gut. She could taste salt and copper; feel the glide of sweat-soaked skin writhing in her grip, this beautiful creature opening up to fall apart beneath her touch. Even more infuriating, she knew that Leliana could feel it too.  The way her whole body shook in the effort to resist was confession that every lascivious fantasy and lurid thought plaguing Morrigan was echoed in her own desires.

There was an answer still missing, a single lock that hadn’t opened. The apostate forced herself to reach for it, to search Leliana’s pained expression and darkening gaze for a clue to this final wall that had to be torn down. It came in the brightness that lingered in the depths of gemstone eyes, flashes of light glittering stubbornly against the void. Neither want nor instinct held Leliana back; it was sheer will, determined to hold out.

_Proud to the very last._ Comprehension tingled down Morrigan’s spine. A sudden rush of admiration coupled with a trickle of delight, very nearly affection. Even as an omega in heat, this woman was possessed of shocking strength.  Sister Nightingale, trained bard and spymaster, would not suffer defeat. She would not surrender. Not alone.

“This is madness,” the witch carefully pronounced her verdict, rolling it off her tongue with the weight of stone.   She felt a tremor wrack Leliana’s body, silent despair that nearly cracked the armor of her face. Morrigan swiftly caught the other woman’s lips, keeping all her attention on each of the next words that breathed between kisses, “Impossible. Irresistible. _Perfect_ madness.”

With that final confession of want Leliana’s last thin tether snapped. A muffled cry of relief spilled between their lips as the omega seized her desire. Soft caresses escalated to greedy nips, darting swipes of tongue and teeth that stole gasps and moans for plunder. Over labored breath and the sound of their mouths Morrigan barely heard quiet slaps of leather falling on wood. Leliana’s ungloved hands clutched at her, long fingers fanning warmth across the bare expanse of her back. The apostate strengthened her grip, electrified with that first naked touch of skin to skin. If just the caress of hands could make her dizzy—!

She shifted her hold on the bard, lifting and surging forward; making an absolute disaster of papers and ink when she draped Leliana across the desk. If the spymaster cared she made no protest, clever tongue consumed with worshipping the witch’s mouth and reveling in Morrigan’s body pressed against her own. A leg hooked around the apostate’s waist, joining the hands that dragged her closer. Cold metal raised goosebumps everywhere that armor met heated skin and the witch decided she loathed chainmail even more than that abhorrent cowl.

Leliana’s hips rolled into her, teeth catching her lower lip when their mouths broke apart. The bard rocked forward again, hungrily seeking friction. Demand sank claws in the pit of Morrigan’s belly, jerking her hips to meet the primal rhythm of a dance they weren’t even part of yet. Her fingers shook as she tugged at breeches and greaves, tearing the material down in a single harsh move that left long welts on pale thighs. Leliana didn’t make a sound, not until the apostate’s palm pressed between her legs and they both gasped at the sodden heat welcoming Morrigan’s touch.

The witch explored the feel of silky, slick folds, vaguely aware that she’d never done any of this before yet somehow knew exactly what to do. Leliana’s breath was a furnace against her ear, stuttering with anticipation. Sharp nails dug at her shoulders, protested the languid glide of Morrigan’s fingers learning each twitch and nuance of her flesh. The bard’s hips rolled impatiently, a tight ring of muscle tugging at the touch that kept slipping away. Leliana’s head fell back with a hiss when the woman finally relented, two fingers plunging into her clinging, molten depths.

The elegant line of that arching throat had haunted Morrigan’s dreams. She fastened her lips to the throbbing pulse point, humming with delight at the feel of Leliana’s body writhing in her hands like a spell. Like magic. The apostate angled and flexed her fingers, finding the strokes that caused shudders and sighs, gasps and moaning.  The flutter and glide of slick muscle clutching at her felt like power woven around her touch, like the first time she twisted air itself to her will. It was intoxicating the way Leliana gave herself over, without shame or regret or thought beyond the pleasure she could wring from this moment. She was as elemental as nature itself; a force to be learned, wielded, worshipped but never contained.

Urgent sounds were breaking louder from the bard’s lips, bouncing off the rookery walls and sending the ravens into maddening calls of distress. Leliana was too overwhelmed to stay silent but she clenched knuckles between her teeth, muffling the loudest cries. Her eyes were screwed shut, inner muscles pulling even more greedily at Morrigan’s fingers as she neared her peak.

The apostate was entranced by the sight and feel of Leliana, the way the woman was tensing as if to shatter. Focusing on the ever present energy laced in her blood Morrigan gathered her magic, forcing it into her hand until her fingers hummed. She found the swell of Leliana’s front wall, hooking into the most sensitive place and the bard’s body snapped into a taut, shuddering bow. Silky muscles fluttered and squeezed like a vise around her fingers; so tight that she couldn’t move, could only keep pressure against that spot. Her thumb dragged rough circles over the omega’s twitching bundle of nerves, prolonging the climax until it seemed she might break.

When Leliana finally melted back against the desk her fist fell free of her mouth, tiny spots of blood marring the skin. Copper mingled with heavier scents of sweat and lust filling the air, enticing Morrigan to breathe deep, drawing it all in. Leliana’s essence trickled over her knuckles as she slid out, wetness painting flushed skin. She was confounded by the desire that drew her fingers to her mouth, the jolt of pleasure that invaded her senses as she took one and then both between her lips. Tasting the omega answered some primal instinct pulsing in her blood, the ache between her legs becoming a throbbing demand for more.

Morrigan cleaned the nectar from her hand with relish, oblivious to the bard’s mesmerized gaze watching every second. Leliana seized the apostate’s mouth, tongue swiping at the taste of herself lingering on the other woman’s lips and groaning with a surge of reignited hunger. A demon’s glee twisted in the witch’s belly, tangling a hand in tousled short hair and tugging Leliana up without losing her kiss. There was still chainmail beneath her grip, and leather and leggings and an endless list of frustrations that brought a rumble from her chest.

“This time, Nightingale,” Morrigan purred, pulling the other woman to her feet. Hands roved buckles and armor even as her eyes spied a door tucked in the far wall. There was no hiding the wicked shape of her smile as she nibbled the plump curve of the bard’s lower lip, “I want to hear you sing.”

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Not once in all their battles together did Leliana and Morrigan fight so violently, efficiently, and _harmoniously_ as the way they laid siege to each other in the confines of her room. Garments were shed like useless layers of the past. Memories stripped away with scarlet and metal, torn fabric and tangled strings, until there was only naked flesh and the urgency of now.

The witch’s skin rasped beneath her tongue, redolent of salt and lyrium as Leliana licked a path down her throat. Her teeth found the sensitive flesh at the nape of Morrigan’s neck, latching on and exulting in the apostate’s breathless moan. She lavished attention over the tender point while fingers that could pick the most stubborn lock made quick work of ties and pins, freeing a cascade of raven hair from its confines to tumble over her hands. She carded through rampant tresses, relishing the silky feel and the way Morrigan’s lips offered up such a helpless sigh of delight as she surrendered to Leliana’s touch.

The spymaster trailed down undiscovered expanses of flesh. Between the soft swell of breasts and along the line of clenching muscles that beckoned her lower still. She moved too quickly, need rushing her past indulgences she longed to savor. Morrigan’s body was a feast of curves and edges, begging to be explored in painstaking detail.

_Soon_. The omega promised herself. Before this delectable woman had slid from her grasp she would map every inch of her, would know every constellation on her skin and chart the seas of her pleasure. Fingers roamed Leliana’s shoulders and hair in an agony of indecision, torn between holding her in place and pushing her further down. The bard made that decision all too easily; dropping to her knees she inhaled a deep, luxurious scent that made her mouth water.

Manicured fingers raked up a pale thigh, guiding Morrigan’s leg over her shoulder, opening the witch like a treasure. A low rumble rolled off the omega’s tongue, want so deep it was almost painful as she took her first taste of the woman she’d craved.  Morrigan’s gasp was nearly as perfect as the way her sex shuddered and pulsed hot against Leliana’s mouth, wet arousal spilling over her lips. She gripped rolling hips, palmed the shapely swell of Morrigan’s ass while her tongue slid as deep as she could reach into her lover’s core.

The witch’s heady flavor poured across her palate, clinging inside her mouth and inciting a fresh throb of jealousy from the need between her thighs.  It had been so long since she’d tasted this earthy sweetness, the tang of magic and lust filling her senses.  Fingers scraped at her shoulder and scalp, tangling in her hair. Morrigan clung to her like an anchor in the tossing waves that rocked her whole body with each plunge and twist of Leliana’s tongue. The omega’s needs tore her in half; eager to spend eternity plundering nectar from this supple, willing flesh but longing for more. The urge to give and take and be _taken_ unraveled inside her and tugged at every raw, humming nerve.

It was Morrigan that made her decide. The pleading clutch of her fingers and those ragged breaths escaping her lips were too sweet, too lost in the wonder of Leliana’s mouth to be denied. The bard’s tongue parted swollen folds and found the point of stiff, aching flesh that begged for attention. It pulsed deliciously between her lips, Morrigan nearly bucking free of her grip as her body arched and rolled into the skilled assault. Leliana could feel the witch’s heel digging into her back, the length of her leg clenching as she fought to deepen the pleasure tightening her core.

A finger inside those fluttering walls and then two, savoring the spasm and grip of drenched, silken flesh so hungry to pull her in. The hand in her hair twisted but didn’t demand, each frantic curl and tug a plea.  Leliana dug her fingernails into the muscle of a trembling thigh, holding the apostate in place as she hooked inside her. She dragged mercilessly against the swell of Morrigan’s front wall, coaxing more slips of want to trickle down her knuckles. Her tongue lashed over the apostate’s twitching bundle of nerves as she gloried in the moans that fell free.

The sound of Morrigan’s amber rich voice breaking on a cry wrested Leliana’s eyes open. She watched, transfixed, as she witch’s body arched into a shape that would make demons weep. A surge of heat spilled over her fingers. Fragrant nectar painted her palm, smearing against her chin but Leliana couldn’t even bother to take a drop for her suddenly parched tongue. She stared up at Morrigan with a wonder approaching divine awe.

Rising to her feet the bard kept her fingers buried deep between her lover’s thighs, feeling every twitch of spent muscle and rippling aftershock. Leliana pressed her free hand to the witch’s face, cradling her cheek like something sacred as she caught Morrigan’s lips. She drank the woman in; swallowed rapid, shallow breaths and offering her own yearning sighs in exchange. The kiss broke with a wince when the omega’s fingers slid free, one thigh quickly slipping into place to soothe the hollow ache. She devoured the apostate with her eyes, memorizing the kiss-swollen shade of her lips, the lush ebony waves of hair cascading around her shoulders and framing flushed cheeks. The woman had never looked more like what she truly was: a creature of the Wilds, pure carnal splendor and promise.

“Andraste Above,” Leliana’s voice came out a hoarse whisper as she rested her forehead against Morrigan’s, struggling for words. “You are . . .”

“Beautiful?” Even breathless and quivering the witch had languid notes of laughter in her tone. Bygone memories of sarcasm and bite vanished in the warmth of the present afterglow. A decade ago the bard had no shame in noticing the other woman’s beauty. But now that word barely touched the edge of everything before her.

“Breath-taking,” Leliana corrected, pressing another feverish kiss to parted lips. “Maker save me, Morrigan, you are exquisite.”

“And you, little bird,” Morrigan’s tongue laced the teasing term with mockery and affection. Her dark smile hovered just beyond reach, turning with a delicious curl of threat. “You still have not sung for me.”

The spymaster’s pride was a distant memory as she felt a whimper surrender to the mouth plundering her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're now officially in the fun part of the story!  
> There will be conversations later, and angst and resolutions and such. But for now? Just smut. Here and in the next chapter.  
> I'm very eager to hear thoughts, reactions, predictions and requests! The feedback keeps me tuned to the story so please, help me out.


	15. O Maker, Hear My Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Again.  
> New tags added, double-check to make sure there's nothing you don't like.

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_O Maker, hear my cry – Transfigurations12:1_

Morrigan moved through life with the confidence and ease that can only come from knowledge. The ultimate power. It allowed her to explore the Crossroads of ancient worlds with the same assurance that let her sweep so regally across the court of Orlais.  She knew people, their craftiness and selfish desires; their uses and skills. She wore the shape of animals and revered their instinct, the influence of nature that subtly flowed and governed life. She understood magic in the terrifying form that held death and birth in one hand; as well as the vain enchantments that people wasted on their shallow, selfish pleasure. (Orlesians especially had a frankly staggering enthusiasm and creativity in the spells they created for wanton delights.)

What she did not— _could_ not—know was what all of those forces combined might create. Somehow, she was certain that not even Flemeth would’ve expected this. The thought of her mother made the apostate’s lips suddenly twitch up in a cruel smile. The old woman had worked so hard to beat temptation out of her willful daughter, brutally punishing indulgences as small as a gilded mirror. What would she say if she could see Morrigan now?  Stretched naked on scratchy sheets, sweat glistening beneath hungry eyes and touches, breathless with anticipation for something unknown.

“You found it in Denerim?” The witch couldn’t tear her gaze away from the object, even with Leliana’s lips and fingers lavishing attention between her legs. It looked harmless enough in the redhead’s delicate grip yet somehow made the air feel even heavier to her feverish lungs.

“The Wonders of Thedas are impressive indeed, no?” The omega asked coyly, gliding the toy very deliberately up the inside of Morrigan’s thigh. She could feel the thrum of magic against her skin, runes in that polished surface beginning to glow ever so faintly in time with her quickening heart.  Muscles shivered and strained wherever it touched, a beguiling sensation that seeped into her blood with seductive whispers of want, need, _take._

“But it only works with two?”  Morrigan’s fracturing mind still wanted to pluck the loose thread in this tangle of longing and doubt.

“The magic requires two,” Leliana clarified, planting light kisses over the apostate’s taut belly. There was an undeniably wicked pleasure on her tongue as she smiled, “It has sufficed in other ways for many years.”

Visions of the redhead pleasuring herself assailed Morrigan. She winced, piercing her lip to stifle sound from breaking free. The thought of soaked flesh trembling and needy for something so inadequate, so _unworthy_ , brought a vicious rumble of pure jealousy up from her depths. Leliana deserved better. The woman’s intoxicating body and unapologetic craving to be filled demanded so much more than an inert lump of leathercraft.  She needed to be ravished; savored, broken and overcome. Greedy claws twisted in her core and Morrigan knew—the way an animal knows to eat and drink and breathe—that she wanted to satisfy the omega’s every desire.

Morrigan slid her foot closer on the bed and her knee rose, hips shifting in silent permission. Leliana’s lidded gaze swept up the apostate, a predatory spike glittered in sapphire and her tongue darted unconsciously across eager lips. Tingling pressure against her folds made Morrigan prop up on one elbow, mouth parted as she watched the bard tease the shorter end of the toy against her sex.  Leliana trailed nips and kisses all along the inside of her thighs, coaxing tight, twitching flesh to ease open.

“That’s it, chèrie,” the omega’s voice was a raw, rasping purr when she began working the toy in.The flared head felt surprisingly real stretching Morrigan wide, her toes curling in the bed sheets as she fought warring instincts to push closer and pull away.  She impatiently reached down, seizing Leliana’s hand with determination. A firm tug forced the toy abruptly into place and Morrigan collapsed back against the sheets with a gasp, stunned by the burst of magic sinking hooks into her core. Enchantments thrummed and pulsed inside her walls, rapidly unfurling tendrils into every inch of her body, tying all her senses to the heavy pressure now throbbing just outside her thighs.

Impossible though it seemed, Morrigan could feel the bard’s fingers playing over the length of the shaft. Each deft stroke made her swell and rise to be touched.  She couldn’t help staring, amazed by the sight of the phallus jutting proudly into the air. Foreign but so irresistibly right. The way it twitched with each brush of Leliana’s breath awakened urges Morrigan hadn’t even considered. To slake lust in this primal way, lost in the heat of flesh milking out every desire, taking the omega’s body so deeply that it became her own. . . The witch’s dry lips stung with a cracking moan.

“I think it suits you.” Leliana’s girlish laugh tickled over the livid tip, voice sliding into a far more seductive hum when she swirled her tongue around the head, gathering a bead of arousal.

“What in damnation have I let you do?” Morrigan groaned entirely without complaint, fingers twisting at the bedclothes as her hips jerked selfishly towards the omega’s mouth.

The exquisite sensation of Leliana’s tongue eluded her, mattress shifting beneath the weight of the bard’s movement. Strands of red tickled Morrigan’s cheek before a fiery sigh and lush warmth scorched her mouth with a kiss.  Leliana’s fingers pumped the length of her lover’s new cock, lapping at the witch’s breathlessly parted lips.

“That’s just the start,” the omega’s molten voice glided like her touch.  Her hand slid to the base of the shaft, right where it burned hot against her palm and gave a deliciously heavy throb. She squeezed, capturing the apostate’s staggered groan on her tongue. A sudden, sharp nip of teeth and then the bard’s lips were against her ear, breathing low, “We aren’t finished until you’ve given me everything.”

The way Leliana’s fingers formed that tight ring around her base was torturous epiphany, a throb shuddering through the entire length and flooding the pit of her belly with fire. She could feel magic drawing from her essence, every heartbeat pulsing more and more into the pounding pressure that had begun a distinctive swell. A burst of excitement ripped through Morrigan, so sharp and greedy it felt like she’d bleed. Her body—her lust—was rising to the omega’s command, magic and instinct answering the mating fever’s need. She hadn’t even sheathed herself in silken heat but was already forming the knot that would tie her inside pulsating flesh, the promise of filling Leliana’s depths with everything she had.

A choked, guttural noise broke from Morrigan’s throat and she surged up, capturing the bard and rolling her to the sheets. Sinuous curves and slick muscles slid delectably beneath her weight as Leliana writhed in her grip. Rocking hips dragged the witch’s length against smooth, shivering flesh and she pressed harder, chasing the sparks of pleasure that licked down her spine. Her mouth moved hungrily over skin. Ravenous kisses branded a pale neck, tasting sharp gasps and teeth seizing on a whimper.

“Wait,” Leliana’s ragged plea barely managed to escape between panting breaths. 

Fingers tugged at Morrigan’s hair, trying to pull her away. The witch snatched the offending hand, pinning a pale wrist to the bed in warning. The bard refused to be still, wrestling even more and Morrigan felt growling impatience tighten her hold. It felt so good, having every inch of her body molded to the omega and the flavor of salt and skin between her lips. She lifted just enough to change the tilt of her hips and her mouth parted on a long moan at the feel of her swollen shaft pressing along slippery folds.

“Maker, _wait_ ,” Leliana cursed and bucked, arching hard enough that she nearly threw the apostate off.

“No,” Morrigan’s teeth scraped harder than before against the racing heartbeat that echoed her own maddening pulse. Long fingers were leaving bruises on the bard’s hip as she fought to hang on, to keep the frustrating, thrashing omega where she wanted.  Her voice slipped into a low tone of threat, “No more waiting.”

She’d been patient enough, had waited days for this craze of need to be gone. The roll of her hips was getting frantic, trying to find the angle that would grant passage into bliss. The raging fire of demand that the redhead had ignited had to be released, had to pour out hot and thick and scorch her insides until even the fever was burned away. How had she waited even this long? Her knot glided through wetness, catching on the hard point nestled in soft flesh and making the omega’s moans climb higher. These desperate hours and days of craving bled across every moment of her mind until Morrigan was certain she’d waited for this her whole life.

“Damnit, Morrigan, please!” Leliana’s strangled cry of her name finally broke through to a last shred of sense. Something was wrong. The witch’s body buckled and shook but she managed to fight herself still, to hear that sharp note of urgency in the bard’s raw tone. Stiff fingers and trembling arms loosened their grip, aching in protest at letting go. The thought of separating from the bard, of losing the warmth and fragrance and slickness of her pressed close—Morrigan shuddered helplessly but started to pull away. Swift hands instantly caught her, carding into her hair and dragging her back for a kiss.

Leliana’s mouth soothed the worried frown from the witch’s lips, artful caresses of smooth tongue and sharp teeth rapidly capturing her attention. A firm hand against her chest pushed Morrigan to rise slowly, the omega following with a satisfied hum that filled their kiss. When the apostate sat back on her heels Leliana finally released her lips with a deliberately wet pop.

“If you’d just listened,” the redhead’s eyes glittered playfully while she scolded.  Morrigan’s mouth worked uselessly to find some reply, one of the questions or arguments currently tangling in confusion on her tongue. Then Leliana turned around and lowered back to the sheets on her hands and knees, wiping every possible word from the witch’s mind. Astonishment wrested a tiny, choked gasp from her throat as she gazed at the body offered so willingly.

 “This is the way to take an omega, yes?” Leliana looked over her shoulder at the witch, a wanton curl to her lips as she arched her back deliberately. “This is the way I want to feel you,” her accent was even thicker purring with need, “All of you.”

Morrigan felt a hard twitch in her cock at the sound of those words sinking into her, tugging her forward as if by hooks. Toned thighs met the curve a shapely backside, earning the omega’s sweet sigh. Her fingers trailed over ribs and waist, around the flare of hips to palm the bard’s ass, full and soft in her hand. She squeezed and Leliana’s head dropped to the pillows, instinctively pressing back into the witch’s grasp.

 Morrigan slid her length through the cleft between firm cheeks, body swiftly learning an angle and rhythm she’d never felt but instinctively knew. It was mesmerizing; watching her stiff shaft slide back and forth between those rounded swells, beads of arousal seeping from the head to leave a trail on perfect, glistening skin. There were tiny spasms beneath her hands each time the knot pressed against Leliana’s nether entrance and a sinful idea spiked the witch’s heartrate. Deliberately lengthening her strokes made the flared tip bump that tight ring, and Morrigan gloated in the redhead’s encouraging groan.  Dark lips curled into a salacious grin, certain that she’d enjoy the bard’s Orlesian side as well.

There would be time for that later. The apostate’s belly clenched violently, trembling when Leliana’s hips rolled higher and became an insistent grind. Wet arousal dripped from her folds, painting both their thighs.  The witch pulled back, wincing at the bard’s horrified whine. One hand had to hold the frustrated woman in place as Morrigan grabbed her cock to line up. Her fingers felt cold against the feverish skin but then there was heat. So much heat. The apostate’s mouth fell open on a groan at the feeling of her tip pressing into Leliana’s sex.

The omega—mercifully—held still. Shivering and fisting the sheets she waited for Morrigan to sink past that first, clenching, slippery ring.  The bard’s flesh was like molten silk parting for her; clingy but blossoming open with a sharp breath to let the flared head slid all the way in. Velvet fire immediately clamped down around her, merciless pressure trying to draw her deeper.

There was no stopping Leliana from moving now, a harsh buck of her hips taking half Morrigan’s length in a single thrust that made the witch’s vision blur.  She grabbed at the omega, digging her nails into soft ass cheeks to keep her from repeating the move. The unbearable tightness squeezing on all sides was making her cock throb like a demon’s pulse, threatening to make her burst too soon. Morrigan couldn’t tell if it was instinct or pride that made her snarl at the thought, determined to have her way.

She slowly drew out of that deliciously snug heat, relishing Leliana’s keen of protest before a selfish snap of her hips drove forward again. The omega dropped to her elbows, panting into the sheets at the sudden thick pressure piercing her depths. Spots danced at the edges of Morrigan’s vision, overwrought senses trying to cope with being completely sheathed in sodden, silky walls. In Leliana.

A dazzling surge of triumph swelled beneath her ribs, ego humming with delight as she gave an experimental thrust. The redhead’s body instantly responded, hips rolling in encouragement and slippery muscles milking her shaft. A violent war of desires tore inside the witch, hungry to watch her length splitting the omega apart over and over but aching for the taste and warmth of skin. The tempting, needy moans spilling from Leliana were the final straw, luring the apostate to press herself against the omega and feel the way each heavy stroke drove her closer to the edge.

“Yessss,” the redhead hissed, one hand flinging back to catch Morrigan’s thigh, urging her into short, rapid thrusts. The witch looped her arms around Leliana’s waist, holding her tightly in place as the bed began to shake.

The bite of salt tasted divine on Morrigan’s tongue and she showered open mouth kisses all over her lover’s neck and trembling shoulders.  She buried her face against red hair, inhaling the decadent scent of flesh and sweetness, candle-smoke and long-forgotten perfume. Words were tumbling past Leliana’s lips between sharp gasps and strangled moans, “Like that. . . .Oh, Maker, chere, _just_ like that.”

 The omega’s sounds were rising into breathless, arching cries and Morrigan could feel inner walls fluttering along her length, trying desperately to keep the throbbing fullness all the way inside.  The apostate sped up, hips driven to chase the pressure pulsing in her cock. She’d lived inside the shape of animals but never known anything this primal, this raw and ancient need to feel the woman beneath her completely surrender.

Wood groaned and complained in time with the frantic pace of skin slapping on skin.  Sweat stung in her eyes and Morrigan’s lungs ached for breath.  She planted her hands on the mattress, digging into the sheets and pouring every ounce of strength into strokes that pummeled Leliana’s depths. The bard’s voice broke on a single, shattering note and Morrigan felt her lover’s whole being quaking with ecstasy.

The omega’s inner walls gripped like a vise, unbearable pressure wringing her cock until the witch couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe except in stutters and bursts as the world faded into waves of pleasure unfurling from her core. Warmth streamed downward, ready to erupt and release from her aching shaft.

Only to stop short and slip away.

Frustration ripped at the witch’s throat in a tortured cry, relief so close she could feel it in excruciating tingles licking up her spine. Her entire length felt even more swollen, furious with pounding need. Morrigan could feel magic roiling inside her, bubbling for freedom that was somehow just beyond reach.

The witch began moving again, hungry to recapture that edge of bliss and this time sink into it completely. Leliana groaned beneath her, spent from her peak but already falling back into rhythm. Morrigan’s chest ached at the whimper that spilled from her lover’s lips, a flash of guilt that wasn’t enough to stop selfish thrusts.

“I need,” her voice felt harsh rasping off her tongue in ragged breaths. She panted against Leliana’s cheek, trying to explain, to apologize, to beg for an end to this anguish. “Please, sodding damnations, I need _more_.”

“So do I.” Tapered fingers wove into Morrigan’s hair, turning her just enough to catch the side of a kiss. The omega’s thighs slid wider across the sheets to offer herself, hungry for anything and everything her lover could give. “Maker, don’t stop.” Leliana pleaded, hips bucking deliberately against the base of her cock.

Wetness and warm silk lathered the top of Morrigan’s knot. The answering throb from that heavy swell flooded her with perfect clarity. She grabbed the omega’s waist, curling her fingers around angled hip bones and using her weight to press Leliana down to the sheets.  Her length was buried deep inside the bard, twitching as if in anticipation. The shivering woman beneath her didn’t protest; only spread her legs further apart.

Morrigan seized that invitation, rising to her elbows and arching her back to snap her hips forward even harder. Leliana’s echoing cry to Andraste nearly made Morrigan believe. She worked her knot against the omega’s quivering entrance, slick muscles already full and tight but clinging greedily at the rolling swell. The bard’s breath grew tortured, panting moans falling into the pillow.

“That’s it, little bird,” Morrigan didn’t know her own voice, this sound of shadows and demons that rose from the deepest crevices in her being. She leaned down close, just long enough to purr into Leliana’s ear, “Let me hear you.”

“Maker save me,” the bard gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets as her sex rippled and gripped at the flesh splitting her apart.  “I need you, need _this . . ._ please, Andraste Above,   _please_ fill me,” her sweet voice mingled plea and demand, words turning into a nonsensical litany of want more beautiful than any song.

Morrigan fell into the beguiling spell of Leliana begging for her, begging to be filled. Her hips swiveled, grinding her knot deeper into that slowly opening ring. The omega’s inner walls were a riot of twitches and spasms, welcoming her in. Magic rolled and pitched in her belly, pulsating excitement into her whole being.

“More,” Leliana writhed beneath her, all other prayers and curses abandoned for that single word chanting over and over. _Moremoremore._

The refrain echoed within Morrigan, inner voices howling in harmony. Soaking, velvet pressure was massaging the top half of her knot now, pushing and pulling all at once.  Having her swell caught in the omega’s entrance sent a violent surge of heat licking up her spine. A taste of the excruciating pleasure within reach. _More._

Leliana’s slick muscles worked her knot mercilessly, building the pounding need to the point Morrigan felt she would burst. She clenched her jaw until it stung. Not until she was all the way in, not until all of her was sheathed in tight omega flesh. Instinct and magic combined their commands, buckling her body to obey. She needed to fill this woman completely. Needed to give her everything. Everything and—

“More,” Leliana repeated, almost in awe as her sex suddenly yielded.

A wet click echoed like thunder when Morrigan’s knot sank in to the hilt. The omega’s inner muscles instantly clamped down, locking her into place and dragging the agony of pressure in Morrigan’s core to finally burst free. Waves of heat cascaded through her, erupting from her cock in harsh pulses. Streams of release painted the bard’s spasming walls, sending her into another shuddering moan of bliss. That long note of ecstasy rose until a sweet, exulting cry of Morrigan’s name sang from Leliana’s lips.

That sound was more than the apostate could bear. A tremor wracked her body, stealing the strength from her limbs and she collapsed against the bard. She trembled on top of Leliana as magic ravaged her depths, pulling every ounce of lust and pleasure from her core to pour out in a flood. Harsh gasps punctuated each jerk of her hips, emptying an endless deluge of her desire into the woman so beautifully murmuring her name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those readers that wanted more intensity in a Leliana/Morrigan ABO sex scene, the plan was always to have it in this chapter. Hopefully it delivered on the promise. As usual, feedback and observations would be greatly appreciated and my heartfelt thanks to everyone who's been supporting me with comments so far.


	16. Rest in the Warmest Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like a while since we've had a flashback, right?

**Ferelden, 9:31 Dragon**

_Make me to rest in the warmest places – Transfigurations 12:1_

The night was so late that it had grown early by the time Leliana heard her chamber door open. Footfall padded softly across the room along with a rustle of clothing and then the bed dipped. Neria slipped between the sheets and slid across to gather Leliana into her arms. The bard let out a sigh that had been stuck in her chest for hours, rolling over and tucking herself against her lover’s warmth. The Warden’s mouth was gentle when it found hers for a kiss, slow and reassuring. Neria felt absolutely boneless in her arms, sinking completely into Leliana with a deep, grateful exhalation.

“You must be exhausted, no?” The redhead brushed her nose against Neria’s, then moved to nuzzle her cheek, unconsciously tracing a new smell on her skin.

“I think having sex with Morrigan is good preparation for fighting an Archdemon,” the Warden groaned, complaint very nearly masking the hint of pride in her tone. Leliana thought of teasing her, mocking the ego that was so very clearly purring beneath the mass of fresh welts and finger-shaped bruises. However, her mouth was far too busy moving down the elf’s neck, tasting an entirely different evidence of the witch’s touch.

Neria always reminded her of the outdoors; the scent of rain and meadows, streams and warm stone. Those fragrances all filled her palate as she placed open-mouthed kisses down the column of the Warden’s throat, but there was also something different. Something darker. Still a forest air but far wilder; redolent of mossy, obsidian caves and heavy branches bowed to the earth, the shadowy places where dangers lurked and eyes watched unseen. Leliana fastened her lips to her lover’s pulse point, savoring the new and intoxicating richness of the twining scents. Neither one overwhelmed the other, dark and bright flowing together in a delicate balance. Much like Morrigan and Surana themselves.

“I wish I could have been with you,” Leliana murmured wistfully. Her imagination had tormented her all night; visions of the mage and apostate coupled together making her twist the sheets and drive away sleep. She had tossed and turned for hours, trying to escape ideas that made her far too breathless and warm.

“Like with Isabela?”  Neria’s smirk was full of insufferable certainty; she knew the hint of longing on her lover’s tone. She also knew how mention of that particularly salacious adventure made the bard’s heart pick up an extra beat.

Leliana hummed at the pleasant memory. The sultry pirate had certainly had her charms. Raw to the point of obscenity, yes, but with a freedom and passion to her appetite that was a seduction all its own. She could perfectly picture the dark-skinned sailor straddling Surana’s girth, the sinful smile on those pouting lips as she beckoned Leliana to join her on the Warden’s lap. There were few lovers with the skill and experience to please another while given over to their own lusts, but the Queen of the Eastern Seas was a woman of profound talent. Those clever fingers didn’t lose pace or pressure for a single moment, not even when Isabela’s head fell back to cry out beautiful profanities.

“That was definitely quite memorable.” Leliana purred, combing her fingers absently through Neria’s hair. She tilted to plant a kiss near the elf’s ear, feeling the curl of a smile against her cheek. “But I think you and Morrigan would be something entirely different. Passionate, yes,” she traced a particularly livid set of scratches, “But you can always tell when it is two people that love each other.”

Anyone else might have tensed, pulled away, turned defensive as they tried to stammer out some argument or apology. The Warden barely even twitched. Her only response was the deep vibration of a chuckle in her chest and a hand cupping the back of Leliana’s neck to hold her close, faces resting together.

“I love _you,_ Leliana,” Neria clarified, her tone easy yet utterly unbreakable; the conviction of absolute truth. There were grand clerics that couldn’t confess faith in the Maker with such certainty.

“As do I, my love.” The redhead wondered if she’d ever get used to the way her heart fluttered and swelled with the intensity of that emotion. Her finger traced the graceful line of the elf’s cheek, luring her towards a brush of lips before parting with a smile. “But you care for her, no? Moreso than for some of our other friends, I think. Would you sleep with Alistair if it meant saving a life?”

“Absolutely,” Surana’s reply was instantaneous and sincere. Then a devious twist infected her smile. “I just wouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much.”

“There, you see? That wasn’t so difficult to admit.” The bard enjoyed her small victory, rewarding the Warden with another kiss, this time exploring past lips to savor the small, breathy sounds that rolled so sweetly over Neria’s tongue.

“You’re not upset?” The Warden barely managed to regain control of her mouth and find words.

Beneath her question lay the unspoken worry echoed in her eyes. That gaze was a tempest of conflicting emotions; sincerity, guilt, courage, anxiety, a hint of apology that lacked the depth of sorrow. Mostly it was just honest fear. Neria knew her lover had a jealous streak, had seen it lash out with the barbed, vengeful temper that gave redheads their reputation. Yet she’d never truly understood what made Leliana jealous.

Blushing noblewomen and flirty barmaids alike fell prey to the Warden’s incessant charms. The bard was seldom anything but amused by how easily her lover’s wiles coaxed such women into small indulgences and wicked delights. Those shallow, brief dalliances had never concerned Leliana. Indeed, that experience with Isabela had opened their relationship to the larger world of pleasures and games that she remembered so fondly from her Orlesian past. She’d even found herself recently wondering if Queen Anora was not ripe for similar seduction.

It was the men and women that wanted more from the Warden that troubled Leliana. The ones that followed her with doe-eyed longing in their eyes instead of simple hunger. The intensity of their gazes, the devotion of their words and absolute, insufferable, dogged _refusal_ to notice Leliana standing right beside her beloved; that was what made her blood sing for a dagger. They were the ones who would eagerly erase the omega from her lover’s company, would try to steal Neria away and selfishly keep her to themselves for all of eternity. They had no regard for the Warden’s actual desires, no respect for the obvious bond between chosen mates and, frankly, no control of themselves.

That was not Morrigan. It might be as far from the witch as was possible in a single world.

“It makes me sad,” Leliana finally found a way to put a tangle of thoughts and emotions into words, “Morrigan has come from such a dark and terrible place, fearsome and lonely in ways she may never admit. I think you are the first she has ever known of love in any way.” The bard stroked Surana’s cheek affectionately. If anyone could move that cruel, hostile, unreachable woman, it had to be Neria.

The elf had relentlessly broken down Morrigan’s walls and earned a trust that grew into something much deeper. Something that entangled them both but irrevocably made them better. The thought of which made Leliana’s throat tighten with even more emotion, “To know that she intends to leave after tomorrow, to walk away from you and anything she feels . . .” the bard’s chest clenched in pain as if it were her own heart breaking. “I cannot decide if I envy her courage or pity her fear.”

“Save your pity for me, I’m sure I’ll need it more.” The Warden’s thumb stroked at Leliana’s lips, brushing away the traces of frown. A soft kiss to the line furrowing her brow erased that as well and Neria’s breath ruffled her hair, “You are thinking too far ahead, Leli. Let’s focus on surviving the battle. Then we can figure out what comes next.”

“Then you will try to make her stay?” Leliana tilted away just enough to search the elf’s eyes for an answer.

She couldn’t explain why it suddenly seemed to matter so terribly, only that it did. There was a niggling instinct beneath her thoughts, a premonition that Morrigan would not be done in their lives after tomorrow. Perhaps it was only the anxiety gripping her on the eve of change; desperately wanting to cling to what was familiar, even when it was rude and abrasive. Perhaps it was the product of a buried wish. She only knew that when her thoughts turned to Morrigan there was a pressing sense of fate unfinished.

 “I’ll try,” Neria relented with a sigh. Exasperated but stubborn as always, her eyes glinted playfully while her lips quirked into a smile, “I will fail, of course. You know that in all our months together I’ve never once gotten my way with that witch.”

“And yet tonight you had your way with her. Several times, I imagine.” Leliana pointed out the obvious with a single cocked brow, daring the Warden to deny it.

“Actually, I think most of the time it was Morrigan having her way with me. Does it look like one of my ribs is broken to you?” Neria protested, pouting as she pulled the sheets down to reveal bruises on her side.

“Such a baby!” The bard scolded with a laugh, tracing over the darker discolorations.

Abused as she looked, there was nothing of injury on Neria’s body that could not be healed with a poultice and potion. In the off chance of anything more serious, Wynne would offer a thorough and caustic lecture along with her magic cures. She’d mended the Warden and their company after far worse. The number of times Neria had narrowly escaped death! Leliana shivered, tucking herself back in against her lover and breathing deep the soothing warmth. They had survived so many terrible threats by little more than a dagger’s edge and the Maker’s grace. But tomorrow— _today,_ she corrected with a glance at the encroaching daylight—they faced the very worst.  

 “Are you worried?” The question felt delicate on Leliana’s tongue, like the words might shatter into reality if spoken too loud.

 “About the battle? No. We are ready for this, you’ll see.” Neria's answer had no such frailty, voice as solid as a deathblow. A sigh followed shortly on her words, uncertain but no less courageous, “I am not sure about what comes after. We will end the Blight, Leli, but that isn’t the same as saving Ferelden.”

“Alistair and Anora have a long and horrific path of challenges ahead,” Leliana agreed, her twinge of sympathy not quite enough to overcome a dart of mischief. “Not least of which are each other. Maker save them if they’re asked to produce an heir.”

“I don’t care.” Neria suddenly pushed up, pinning her lover to the sheets to plant tickling kisses down her throat. “Let the Maker save Ferelden. Once the Archdemon is slain the wardens’ work is done.”  She nipped across Leliana’s collar bone, lavishing attention at the crook of her shoulder. The bard shivered at the feel of teeth against that sensitive skin and the heat of Neria’s voice, “That means you and I will finally be free to slip away to that remote haven you described. With good wine, a comfortable bed, endless views and the freedom to throw a fireball at any idiot who so much as tells me to put on pants.”

“Very well, my love, there will be no pants,” Leliana laughed, amazed that the elf so easily filled her with this infectious lightness. She pushed up from the sheets, pulling her Warden to rise. “Come, the sooner we face today is the sooner we reach tomorrow.”

“Not yet,” Neria protested, petulant as a child. She dropped back against the sheets, dragging her lover with her. Securing the redhead in her arms, she squeezed just a little tighter to cling to the moment. Her breath was sweet across Leliana’s lips, seductively coaxing, “We have a few hours still. I just want to stay here and not think about anything other than us.”

 “Well, when you say it so sweetly, how could I resist?” Leliana melted in surrender. From the moment they met, she had known she could get lost in this woman. And in their first kiss she’d decided to stay lost forever. She willingly settled back into Neria’s embrace, enfolded in the contentment that came from simply being together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter is mostly context/setup for the next, but I also wanted to get into non-fevered head space for a minute to breathe. For a long time the question has niggled at me about how Leliana felt about the Dark Ritual if she was in a relationship with the Warden. Combining her romantic nature, her Orlesian past and her clearly salacious knowledge revealed in the Isabela encounter, this is what feels right to me. Please feel free to let me know if you agree/disagree or if anything seems OoC. Or if you just want to get past any emotional stuff and back to the smut.


	17. Know My Heart

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_My Maker, know my heart. –Transfigurations 10:3_

Leliana slowly drifted back from the edge of the Fade. She left dreams of a lover’s warm embrace and woke up to the reality. Not the same, but so very close. The deep sigh that left her would have been a prayer of thanks if her tongue weren’t so raw and sluggish. Morrigan had managed to roll the both of them to one side without disturbing the bard or moving the knot nestled within her walls. Now she could feel the witch’s breasts molded to her back, rising and falling in languid swells and restful, rhythmic breaths behind her ear.  Occasional, gentler waves of pleasure rolled back and forth between them; like the music that unites two bodies in a single dance, sung in low hums and lazy sighs.

How had she gone so long without this? The feeling of this intimacy and contentment that was so much more than just the primal act of sex. Leliana absently stroked her fingers over the arm draped across her chest. Even asleep there was a demand in Morrigan’s touch, a possessiveness that was more than instinct; it was the apostate’s own nature. It made Leliana regret her earlier impulsiveness, suddenly longing to be able to see her lover’s face. What did the intense and terrifying Witch of the Wilds look like in the sweaty aftermath? Lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyelashes fluttering as she wandered dreams?

Leliana thought of trying to twist to see the other woman but the grip of nails in her thigh warned her Morrigan was not so far lost in the Fade as she’d imagined. She would wait. She’d waited years for a lover that could sate her heat, days for this stubborn witch to finally understand. The wait, she knew as only one who lurks in shadows can truly appreciate, was worth it.

It had been so long since she had taken a knot, her body refused to surrender it too soon. The omega’s sex repeatedly clenched, milking Morrigan to keep her thick and heavy, filling her insides. She squeezed her inner walls, testing the size and weight of the swell resting snug within her entrance. A throb answered, followed with a rumble from Morrigan’s throat, her body tensing and twitching forward to erupt in another stream of heat. The bard let out a contented sigh, bliss unfurling within her once more.

“Stop doing that,” the witch complained against her neck, rousing to life.

“What?” Leliana teased back, voice coy and innocent. “This?”  The bard arched her back and deliberately tightened again, even harder, tearing a choked groan from Morrigan’s spent lips.

“Hold still, damn it, or we’ll never be free of this cursed tether,” the witch’s labored breath stirred her hair, fingernails scraping her belly in warning.

“Ah, so eager to be free of me, are you?” The playful question tasted sour in her mouth, sadness creeping into her carefree tone. She should’ve expected as much. Fever could not change people that completely. Carnal passion did not turn into affection simply because they held each other close.

“There are far more important things to do than lie here useless,” Morrigan pointed out with that familiar tone of impatience, the exasperation that had always colored so many of her cutting replies. “Don’t you think this time could be better spent?”

“Stopping the world from crumbling, no doubt,” the spymaster couldn’t keep the bite out of her words. There was no one more acutely aware that every minute, every hour spent in bed was time for the world to fall.

She just couldn’t bring herself to care. Her body felt too deliciously sated, the fever a low and warming smolder, savoring each pleasant aftershock. The worries of the world could not shatter her contentment. Apparently, the witch did not feel the same. Leliana tried not to let bitterness bleed into her mocking reply, “You must have many grand and mysterious plans you’re eager to begin.”

“I do,” Morrigan agreed with her usual haughty conviction. Leliana gasped at the sudden feel of teeth against her ear, worrying the tender skin. “Though none of them involve leaving this room.”

The witch’s breath made her shiver, voice ominous with promises. Sparks danced through Leliana’s veins on every word, making her walls pulse entirely without permission. She tipped her head back in a helpless gasp at the feeling of Morrigan spilling inside her again, pushing her back to that gentle peak she never seemed to leave.

“’Twill never end, will it?” The witch muffled her groan against Leliana’s shoulder, a gust of hot air sending chills down her spine.

“Relax, ma chère sorcière” the endearment rolled off her tongue with fond mockery. The redhead found one of Morrigan’s hands and brought it to rest on her chest, hoping the steady pace of her heart might persuade the other woman’s own impatient pulse to slow. Tapered fingers at first resisted against her breast, then softened and fanned wide. Leliana smiled, releasing a grateful sigh, “The fever gives only this respite, we must take it, no? It is a chance to rest and recover, to share and,” the bard hesitated, steeling herself. “Sometimes talk.”

“Talk?” Morrigan repeated, incredulous and skeptical as if the word itself were a puzzle.

 Not that the redhead could blame her. During all their time adventuring together not once could she remember the two of them having a conversation that didn’t devolve to sarcasm, insults or doubt. They touched off nerves in each other that felt like fuses. The battles became so instinctive that from the pause or speed of a single inhaled breath Leliana knew when the witch intended to start another fight. She could probably still recognize that sound even now. But time changes many things.

“It has been ten years since we have spoken properly.” _If we ever truly spoke at all,_ Leliana admitted only to herself. She found herself imitating Josephine’s diplomatic tones, “There is much we could discuss.”

Leliana braced herself for a cruel laugh or scathing insult. That same cutting mockery with which Morrigan had always dismissed the most basic desires for human connection. She forced her breath to stay calm, cursing the betrayal of her heart speeding up beneath Morrigan’s fingers. Tensing for battle, daring to hope . . .

 “Such as?” The witch’s voice was wary, beginning to approach the idea as cautiously as one sensing a trap. Excitement and relief exploded in her chest and Leliana had to bite her lip to keep from letting them burst free.

“You could tell me of your time in the Court of Orlais.” Her voice, no matter how controlled, refused to hide a grin.

“Ridiculous.” Morrigan scoffed, that single word an absolute and disdainful rejection. It would have stung terribly if not for the tiny flutter of breath the bard felt on the back of her neck, a hint of amusement that was almost a chuckle.

“It is not!” Leliana huffed in annoyance, wishing she could pinch this woman the way she used to with Neria when the elf grew impossible. “Of all the places I thought you might appear, I never once imagined it would be at the Empress’ side. I am certain you saw much of the Game’s players and intrigue.”

“And as I said, ‘twas all ridiculous,” Morrigan clarified with the same tone as someone dealing with a very small and probably backwards child. “People fighting with dance steps and bits of cheese? Armed with compliments and ludicrous hats and deciding the fate of cities over a single milliner’s lace?” The witch let out a disgusted laugh. “The waste of it, the vanity and shortsightedness of everyone involved, would be amusing were it not so dangerous. In Orlais I saw for myself everything Flemeth had warned me was wrong with the civilizations of men.”

“And that is why a piece of you loved it, no?” Leliana challenged, absolutely certain of the answer.

Never in her life had she known a creature more vicious and unforgiving than Morrigan. And no one person ignited the full wrath of the witch’s vindictive nature more than Flemeth. If Orlais was everything that old woman hated, there was a part of Morrigan that would love it just to spite her. The apostate’s silence now was telling in itself.

“I gained insight into the skill ‘twould take to battle on words alone,” Morrigan slowly conceded, testing out each word before speaking. “And the sort of wits required to play with spiders in their own web. That you did so at all was foolish,” the rebuke in her tone was, at least, familiar. “That you did it so young and survived is a feat.”

Leliana swallowed a tangle of shocked words in her throat, left speechless. That was as close as the witch might come to admitting that her accusation had been correct but, more importantly, it was the first compliment Morrigan had ever given her. More than just a compliment; what remained unspoken was a confession even more shocking. Morrigan had thought of her in Orlais. Not just once, but often enough to compare what she saw before her to the bard she barely knew.

A hundred questions burned the back of her tongue, longing to chase the elusive delight of this subtle intimacy that had been so carefully shared. What made Morrigan think of her? The music in the ballrooms? The well-heeled, graceful courtiers dancing ethereally through the night? Those moments when a player stumbled, the Game changing to a new song and rhythm but always danced the same? Or perhaps—a dart of clever suspicion turned her lips to a smile—perhaps it was something far simpler that constantly reminded Morrigan of her former adventuring companion.

“From what I saw you mastered many skills yourself. You blended in beautifully you know,” Leliana paused, waiting to see if the witch might sense her direction. When Morrigan remained quiet, breath and heartbeat regular against her back, the redhead’s smile widened, “And your dress was just as stunning as I imagined. I said you would look ravishing in red velvet, didn’t I?”

“You also leered at my breasts; that is hardly a reason to choose a dress for your sake.” Morrigan rolled her eyes; Leliana didn’t even have to see her to know. The apostate’s huff of annoyance was too delightful not to give chase.

“No? But everyone knew the Inquisition would be attending the ball. All of Halamshiral saw us ride in. Did you truly not know you might see me that night?” The spymaster coaxed with a coy, sweet tone to match the feathery trace of her fingers on Morrigan’s arm.

“If you must know, Kieran chose that dress for me to wear.” Even annoyed the witch’s voice became warm and gentle when she spoke her son’s name, like she was speaking to him and no one else.

“He has wonderful taste.” Leliana praised, but wasn’t convinced. It was far too much fun to have Morrigan on the defensive over something so entirely innocent. “But that still means it was in your wardrobe for him to select.”

“I cannot begin to list all the atrocities of that damnable closet! If you are determined to be insufferable about the matter then by all means, amuse yourself.” There was no real bite in the witch’s rebuke. Her words held the familiar sarcasm of long ago tempered with age and patience; and something that a piece Leliana’s heart desperately wanted to call affection.

Was she trying to invent threads to cling to? Was it merely fancy that there was an intensity between them that went beyond fever? Her thoughts and feelings had never tangled around Morrigan the way they did now, tying into knots and chains that threatened to never release. Leliana took a sharp breath, struggling for clarity just out of reach. Every logical fiber of her being screamed that this was only Neria’s influence, the traces of her mate lingering in Morrigan’s body and the call of heat pulling them together. But she wanted—Maker, how she _wanted_ —to believe there was also more. The kind of more that would last past these greedy tumbles and sweaty sheets.

The cascade of her thoughts twisted her insides into a spiral of emotion and want and she trembled, desire calling to Morrigan once more. A groan that was nearly pain hit her skin and Morrigan panted against her shoulder as her knot throbbed and spent again.

“It _has_ to be done soon, doesn’t it?!” The apostate demanded in absolute disbelief. It was astonishing, actually, that even with magic the woman had anything left to give. Leliana’s lips curled up in a contented smile, a faint hum of pride flowing through her veins at the thought that she had taken so much of her lover.

“Soon,” the omega simply confirmed.

 Leliana decided not to add that once the knot left she would drag Morrigan back to her and this time ravish the witch with her eyes on her the entire time. The apostate’s every breath against her neck was stoking the coals in her belly and she knew that by the time they were released she’d be desperate only to be filled again.

“Tell me,” her words rasped in her throat as she clung to their conversation as refuge from growing desire. “Tell me about Kieran.”

There was a split second pause, a startled breeze by her shoulder and the tension of a woman at war with herself. Then Morrigan’s carefully controlled voice with a cautious reply, “What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” the honesty rushed out of Leliana at once. “Everything. He looks so much like both of you, Morrigan.”

“He does,” there was undeniable pride in the apostate’s murmured agreement. “Though the older he gets I see more and more of Neria in him.”

“Like what?” The bard found her heart beating faster, eager to latch onto every word.

Morrigan unfolded stories with the affection and awe of precious gems kept stored away. In broad strokes and tiny details she painted the portrait of her son. A child that seldom crawled because he loved to climb, and kept trying to run before he was even walking. Unfailingly obedient, but with an uncanny ability to find any and every exception to the rules. He had the patience to spend days watching a butterfly born; combined with an eagerness that would follow said butterfly to a tree, find a vine on the tree, follow the vine to a bush and come home with a new and terrible rash.

“And he has Neria’s love for beasts,” Morrigan’s frustrated sigh was rife with too many stories to tell. “I once found him tracking a Hivernal back to her lair because he wanted to bring home a dragonling.”

“That would be quite a handful,” Leliana sympathized, her lips quirking into a smile. “But it couldn’t be any worse than Neria’s mabari, no?”

“That damned creature!” Even with her surge of irritation Morrigan couldn’t mask a trace of fondness. “Always slobbering on my things and ruining my underclothes.”

“Neria?” The bard smiled, rewarding herself a victory when smokey laughter brushed across her neck.

“No, Fen’alas,” Morrigan’s hands moved over Leliana’s skin in an echo of how she stroked the mabari when she thought no one was watching. “You’d think the smartest breed of dogs in Thedas would be clever enough to know we were cursing at him every time we called his name.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Leliana pressed herself further back into the witch’s arms, silently pleading for more contact. “He was devoted to you. Not matter what you were saying, he loved the sound of your voice.”

“Then I daresay he learned to upset me just to have the pleasure of my scolding.” Morrigan’s mouth moved aimlessly over the bard’s naked skin, trailing goosebumps in the wake of her lips.

“Probably from Neria,” Leliana hummed, reaching back to thread her fingers into tumbled hair and hold the witch’s mouth in the exact spot that sent shivers down her spine.

“’Tis far more likely,” the witch’s low voice became a velvet purr, “that he learned it from you.”

A sharp edge of teeth nipped very deliberately at Leliana’s shoulder, making the omega shudder. _Maker,_ _release us_ , she pierced her lip as she silently begged. _For she will kill me and I want to kiss her as I die._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen'alas: dirty dog
> 
> So we've moved into the more emotional stages of the story. Here again, I'm desperately determined to keep both women in character as much possible. Please let me know if something seems like too far a reach! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been commenting. The deeper into the story we get, the more it helps that a handful of you seem just as invested as I am!


	18. The Pounding of My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst *AND* NSFW in one chapter! Oh, I had fun.

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_In the pounding of my heart I hear the glory of creation. –Trials 1:7_

Morrigan could feel her knot finally— _finally_ —starting to recede. Was this what it was truly like for alphas? Or was this enchantment more powerful than nature? It felt like the sorcery at work between her legs had drawn directly from the magic in her blood, bending her entire being to the will of the spells. The omega’s need had greedily drained her, taking more than she’d known her body could give. More than she’d imagined anyone could take.

The witch’s hand glided down a smooth belly, finding the subtle curve that was taut and full. She rested her palm there, an excited thrill spiking her pulse. This was _her_ inside Leliana, sating the omega’s fever, filling her to overflowing in the deepest places. The feel of that swell beneath her hand spread the warmth of memory into her chest, evoking the weeks and months when she’d cradled the same place on herself and mapped the evidence of life growing within.

A sudden chill stole across the witch’s mind, making her melted body go tense. That shouldn’t, _couldn’t_ be possible. Dread slid down her spine. Could it? She focused on the magic still nestled between her thighs, prodded at it with her senses, anxious to unravel the enchantment’s secrets.

“It can’t.” Leliana might as well have read the apostate’s mind, her own hand covering Morrigan’s fingers on her belly. The redhead shifted to look over her shoulder; just enough to show the amusement sparkling in her eyes, delighted to find she knew an answer the witch did not. That smug pleasure infected her lilting voice, lips curled into what was very nearly a smirk, “The magic will let us both have our fill and end the fever sooner. But it cannot create life.”

“That is certainly for the best.” Morrigan dropped her head against a pale shoulder, letting out relief in a sigh tinged with frustration. She should’ve known as much, obviously. Her annoyance with herself climbed into an angry spark. The fever might have utterly broken her will but she should still have had the sense to think of such things first.

“What sort of Divine would I be?” Leliana’s laugh wove around the absurdity of such an idea and her lover’s consternation. “Sitting on the Sunburst throne carrying your seed?”

The words stung in Morrigan’s chest and she convinced herself it was pride. Since when had she ever cared what this woman thought of her? But her temper was high and she was in no mood to be mocked. A jog of her hips silenced Leliana’s laughter, the knot still full enough to press against her front wall and tug a gasp past her lips.

“The same kind,” Morrigan grazed her teeth against the redhead’s shoulder, eliciting a quivering sigh, “That begged for my knot.”

She felt the bard’s upper body shift in her arms. There was a momentary instinct to tighten her hold and keep the woman from moving but she fought it back, letting Leliana twist until her shoulders hit the pillows and she could lay back gazing up at Morrigan. A tremor hitched the apostate’s breath as those deep crystal eyes offered up a revelation of tender sincerity.

“It is not you that is unacceptable, Morrigan.”  The dulcet reassurance became a bloom of warmth swelling the witch’s ribs, traitorous thoughts and instincts basking in that simple approval. Morrigan choked back the sigh that almost escaped when Leliana’s palm cradled her cheek. Emotions were trying to tangle in her chest and she throttled every one, forcing them away without noticing the wistful, sympathetic smile that turned one corner of Leliana’s lips. The bard’s hand slid up to stroke raven hair, continuing almost absently,

“It is too dangerous to be with child while waging a holy war. The Chantry must be torn apart and reborn.” Though the bard’s tone remained melodic and light, there was the iron of clashing blades beneath her words. Her eyes grew distant, shadows of the future creeping into the edges. She shook her head, erasing them with a sigh, “I cannot do all of that and also protect a growing life, you see? I am only one woman.”

Morrigan sensed more than heard the traces of sadness in Leliana’s admission. Determined as the bard was, there was no hiding the rueful emotion that filled her voice but never made it waver. The set of her jaw would tolerate nothing less. This was the path she would walk. Over fires, bodies, and completely alone if she had to, but she would see it done.

“The only woman I know,” Morrigan corrected, impulsively giving into a rising respect that was nearly admiration, “Who might be capable of pummeling that backward, hypocritical tyranny of an institution into a force for good.” Damn the fever. Damn the surge of foreign, dangerous emotions that kept stealing away sense. Her chest ached at the stunning, grateful smile that lit Leliana’s face on hearing her words, the redhead’s beauty becoming a spell. Morrigan cursed inside herself, burying her face back against hair and skin to hide from the chaos in her head, clawing her armor back into place with a growl, “Or at least make it less of an abomination.”

“Maker willing,” Leliana hummed in agreement, unfazed by the war her lover was fighting. The bard simply rolled back over, giving Morrigan and her conflicted feelings space. But she kept the witch’s arms tightly wrapped around her, fingers of their hands interlaced.

Mercifully, the apostate didn’t have to dwell in the tumult of her thoughts long. With a wet sound and sudden shudder, her knot slid free and released them from the tether. Morrigan’s sigh mingled relief with regret as she eased her length from Leliana, immediately shivering at her body’s protest and the omega’s soft whine.  The moment she pulled herself from between her lover’s thighs the witch felt the fever rising once more. Like wind on a smoldering coal, the breeze hitting her flushed skin sent licks of fire through her veins. _Not already!_ An exasperated growl climbed up from her throat.

She shakily pushed herself to her feet, instincts screaming at her with every inch she drew away from Leliana but she refused to be deterred. The pitcher of water on Leliana’s table had been taunting her all this time. Sweat and magic and the omega’s need had drained her until it felt like her blood had turned to clay. She strode quickly across the small room as the air grew thick and fragrant with reborn need, weighing on her like a command. The apostate grabbed the jug in both hands, drinking greedily to slake her parched throat and the desert inside her skin. The cold liquid was balm on her tongue but did absolutely nothing for the thirst turning her belly into a pit. Fire met water and turned into a swell that escaped in the witch’s steamy sigh.

A sound that wasn’t a sound plucked at Morrigan’s ear. She turned; gut immediately twisted into a churning knot by what she saw. Leliana had rolled to face her, dark eyes piercing through thick lashes to follow the witch’s every move. Long fingers were nestled between her thighs, painting deliberate circles that quickened with her breath. The curve of a coral, kiss-bruised lip was caught between teeth in silent, sultry invitation.

Morrigan’s eyes raked over the woman, her willing body on display like an alabaster statue of sin. She was entranced by the intensity of the bard’s eyes drinking her in and the small, choked whimpers that had begun climbing into the air. Everything before her called out a naked confession of need so raw it nearly brought the apostate to her knees. Leliana’s eyes didn’t leave her, not even when her lashes fluttered and her lips fell open on a gasp. Morrigan felt lightning catch in her heels and she surged forward, the pitcher of water clattering to the floor.

Fiery tremors shook her breath as she pushed Leliana back against the bed and slid over her. One hand immediately combed into Morrigan’s hair, luring her down for a kiss that let her taste a moan across her tongue. Her own fingers swiftly replaced the bard’s, gliding through the mixture of their combined release that flooded from swollen folds. The sharp scent of fresh arousal coated the back of her tongue; Morrigan flared her nostrils, breathing deep.

“Still so wet for me, Nightingale?” The apostate’s pride hummed with wicked delight, watching her lover’s face flush with desire. A spark glinted in sapphire and Morrigan felt a quick hand capture her throbbing cock.

“Still so hard for me, witch?” Leliana retorted with her own smug purr. Skillful fingers pumped her length, smooth and slick and—Morrigan shuddered—wet with the omega’s nectar. She bit back a groan and grabbed the redhead’s hands, pinning them both overhead with one arm.

Stretched out above the bard’s body she could feel every tremulous breath and racing beat of her lover’s heart while she squirmed against the rumpled sheets.  Coals scorched the witch’s tongue as she trailed down the column of the omega’s throat. Her fingers dipped into soaked flesh, gathering and spreading the wetness along overheated flesh until she found the aching bundle of nerves that made Leliana arch into her with a groan.

 The bard wasn’t even fighting the hold on her wrists, all too willing to surrender to Morrigan’s hungry touch. Fingers traced light circles, quicker and harder in time with the omega’s grinding hips. Leliana’s skin tasted like the heady scent filling the air, sweet promise and molten want. Morrigan soaked it into her senses, drank it in with each breath. Smooth and tempting skin suddenly turned into a rough pattern beneath her mouth. She traced the edges with her tongue, recognizing a mark she’d seen but not understood. Not until the omega bucked and cried out at the feeling of lips against her scar. Leliana shattered in an instant, a river of heat streaming out of her and soaking the sheets as she tensed and trembled in Morrigan’s arms from the sudden but shallow peak.

Still stunned by that sharp reaction, the witch wasn’t prepared for the strength or speed of Leliana’s attack. The bard had clearly not lost any of her skills, rolling and pinning her lover to the sheets in a blink. The witch started to protest but was silenced by lips on her own, a deep kiss twisting her tongue into impossible shapes. Leliana’s mouth left her breathless, easing back with a conceited smile and an absolutely predatory gleam in her eyes. That lidded gaze and the dart of a tongue across coral lips was Morrigan’s only warning that the omega’s assault had just begun.

The feel of soft warmth moving down her throat made the apostate shudder, instinctively tilting back to offer more. Leliana’s purr hummed through both of them, lips latching onto her pulse point and searing her mark over the racing heartbeat. Morrigan squirmed and panted, hands clutching at the redhead in a silent struggle between _this_ and _more_. Leliana’s tongue was scorching silk rasping over her skin, following an invisible map downward. Moist heat engulfed the peak of her breast and Morrigan arched upward, silently begging to be devoured.

Leliana laid siege to her lover’s body. With open kisses and greedy nips, long licks and small suckles she lavished attention over Morrigan’s breasts until the tender points were painfully hard, the witch whimpering at the slightest breeze.  Then the omega was moving lower, blunt nails dragging down taut muscle in the wake of her tongue. Morrigan felt soft flesh sway and drag over the head of her raging cock, her whole length twitching excitedly at the brush of Leliana’s breasts as the bard slid down her body. The ache in her belly howled protest when that luxurious sensation moved away. A groan of complaint in her throat broke into a gasp when the omega dragged her tongue up the pulsating vein that throbbed along her entire shaft.

Warm breath gusted over the flushed tip and Morrigan’s hips arched, hungry for more. Nothing happened, not until the witch opened her eyes and met Leliana’s salacious gaze. The omega’s eyes flashed with wicked delight, mouth curling into a smile before opening to take that swollen head completely between her lips. The sound that tore from Morrigan was nearly pain, rent by a surge of heat flooding her core.

The world narrowed to nothing but the pinpoint focus of Leliana’s mouth on her. The apostate could feel a slippery tongue playing all around her cock; stroking beneath the flare, painting swirls on the top, licking and tapping and suckling at the arousal all but weeping from her tip. All the while those sapphire eyes never left her, never let her look away. If Morrigan so much as fluttered her lids in a moan she felt nails rake up her thigh, dragging her attention back to the excruciating torture of watching Leliana between her legs. She was forced to stay aware of every detail; the shade of her lips, the strands of red hair swaying back and forth in her face, the wet, sucking sounds that filled the air alongside her own ragged breath and the bard’s deliberately wanton moans. No desire demon could put on a more erotic, carnal display. Morrigan groaned, fisting the sheets as the throbbing pressure in her shaft grew unbearable. She reached for Leliana, threading one hand into red tresses and forcing her to halt while she dragged in a shuddering breath.

“Take me inside you, little bird,” her command wavered dangerously close to a plea. She cursed, clenching her jaw and twisting her voice back into warning, “Before I lose control and knot that pretty face.”

She felt Leliana’s throat clench, choking back a groan, but the redhead instantly obeyed. Morrigan’s cock fell free of the bard’s lips with a wet pop. The stiff flesh was livid and aching from the loss but immediately soothed by the feel of long fingers wrapped around her length. Leliana straddled the witch, guiding her right into dripping folds. As soon as the flared head parted tight muscle the omega moved her hand away, giving Morrigan an unfettered view of her shaft plunging inch by inch into willing flesh.

The redhead had spent whatever patience she had left on teasing her lover. The urgency of her need confessed itself in the deep, hard plunge of her hips. With one hand fanned wide across the witch’s clenching stomach for balance, Leliana’s body fell into a rapid, desperate rhythm. Morrigan stared at the spectacle rising above her. Pale, sweat-damp skin glowed warm in the flickering candlelight. Angles and curves flowed together in perfect harmony, long lines of strength making every roll and arch a thing of grace. Leliana’s tousled hair fell across her face, caught on her parted lips as her shallow breaths became luxurious moans.

Those sounds lit fuses in Morrigan’s veins, pouring together into the heavy pulse that dragged her hips to match the omega’s rhythm. The wet heat squeezing her length on all sides was fluttering more wildly, losing pace, clamping down harder and longer to keep the thick fullness inside. Leliana was near her peak, her whole body tense and straining to catch the crest of the wave nearly crashing over her.

“Morrigan,” the omega groaned, lines appearing across her brow. “I need you. Sweet Andraste, Morrigan, _please._ ”

The hoarse anguish of her call dragged the witch upright, wrapping her arms tightly around her lover to urge her on.

“What, little bird? Tell me,” the apostate’s plea fell across stinging lips. The agonizing pressure in her own throbbing length begged for relief, begged to be taken, begged to hear and feel Leliana fall apart around her and draw her in. She couldn’t tell where her need ended and the omega’s began, only that the hooks in her belly were twisting deeper with every helpless whimper that fell from the omega.

“This.” Leliana’s hands filled with her lover’s hair and skin, molding their bodies together to feel like one. “You, like this,” her words were a panting keen against Morrigan’s ear.

 A scent hit the witch, hot and coppery, salt laced with sweetness and she parted her lips to let it glide across her tongue. Leliana hissed in pleasure, her hips driving down harder into the apostate’s lap. She wasn’t thrusting anymore, just grinding her wetness over the swell of Morrigan’s knot, seeking to take it in. Senses tore the witch in multiple directions: stinging with the scratch of blunted nails down her back, reveling in the fingers tangled in her hair, breathless moans pouring across her cheek,  the pulsing ache of her knot rolling against sodden flesh. Above all, the taste. The indefinable, captivating flavor that kept luring her mouth further down her lover’s skin.

The scar. Morrigan’s entire body jolted with shock when her tongue reached the jagged, burning marks that throbbed in time with their frenzied heartbeats. Magic and instinct seared together in a single place and the witch couldn’t resist tracing every edge and groove with her lips.

“Yes. Maker, Morrigan, _yes,_ ” Leliana’s cries rose even higher, climbing towards that exultant pitch that was about to shatter. Arousal was streaming down her rippling inner walls, smearing Morrigan’s knot as it began to slide in.

The urge to sink her teeth into the scar, the demand of magic and nature working in tandem, was all but rabid inside her veins screaming for blood. For the taste of metal and forests and fire smoke; for the passion and power that could flow into her and fill up every aching crack and hollow in her body and make her whole. Leliana’s fingers in her hair wouldn’t let her move away, the bard’s voice an unbroken song of pleas and want.

A tiny instinct, sharp as danger but deep as longing silenced all the others. It whispered of something lost though never forgotten; something stronger than spells and fever but still woven into every inch of their skin and every breath of this moment. A tortured cry choked in Morrigan’s chest and she knew her teeth couldn’t break this mark. Not tonight and never like this.

With a fresh surge of determination she gripped the omega’s hips and added her strength to the pressure forcing her knot to push past that tight, clinging ring. Morrigan’s mouth stayed over the claim bite, tongue and lips lavishing it with the attention that was driving her lover to break. Steeling herself with a mournful wince of regret, she let her teeth barely brush the pulsating scar.

Leliana’s spine snapped into an arch, her sex blossoming open to take the witch’s knot completely and seal tight around the swell. The bard’s ecstatic cry burst into a sob, trembling as Morrigan’s dam burst and filled her again. A triumphant, despairing, broken sound escaped the witch as she tore her mouth away from skin without leaving a trace. They clung to each other, quaking together in a sticky tangle of flesh and limbs and kisses, riding out the euphoria that—for this moment—made them one.

The omega’s shivering gradually woke Morrigan back to her senses. The soft cries and moans had ceased but Leliana trembled in her arms with the exhaustion of a spent body trying not to collapse. She kept one arm secure around the redhead’s shoulders and slowly sank back into the mattress, keeping the other woman cradled close. The thought of rolling them to one side crossed her mind, but Morrigan quickly dismissed it. Leliana’s weight felt warm and real pressed against her, a solid anchor that she could cling to as her senses flowed ever further away.

The bard’s heart beat steadily against her chest, slowing into a strong, soothing rhythm that took her back to the days when Kieran had slept against her breast. The swell of a sigh filled her as she recalled that old feeling, so similar to now. He had been so achingly fragile; helpless and trusting tucked against her, falling asleep in the warmth of her arms. Her heart had ignited then with the savage need to protect; fierce in the determination that nothing and no one would ever bring harm to what was hers.

Not unlike the way her emotions boiled within her now. Leliana was not helpless, nor was she weak. But lying as she did in her lover’s embrace, vulnerable and longing for the refuge of Morrigan’s strength, the bard evoked that same fearsome passion. Perhaps even more, because Kieran had only his mother from birth and knew no better, but Leliana? The ethereal spymaster could’ve chosen from a hundred soldiers and suitors and had given herself over to _her_. 

Morrigan tightened her arms around the bard, reminding herself over and over that it was only the fever. She would come to her senses in the morning or by the next day. She threaded fingers into disheveled red hair, thumb brushing a familiar braid. This would end and her heart would stop fluttering, her chest no longer crippled by these waves of emotion that kept threatening to steal her breath.

Leliana let out a contented sigh against Morrigan’s cheek, melting even more completely against her. Tomorrow this madness would end—the witch repeated again in her mind—but that did not mean today. She pressed a soft kiss to Leliana’s brow, creating a spell book in her mind of the way this woman filled her senses. Then she closed her eyes and rested while she knew she could.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hitting the most crucial elements of the story now, the moments when characters will reveal their evolution. As such, OoC is more of a concern than ever. Particularly with Morrigan. Please let me know reactions/thoughts/objections if you come across anything that deserves attention. Thank you again to my regular comment providers, as well as those of you who've been inclined to chime in. Every little bit helps.


	19. Eyes Closed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little later than usual.

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_With my eyes closed, yet I see.—Trials 1:15_

The darkest part of the night had taken on the purpling color of early morning when Leliana felt her fever give way. She sagged, melting deeper into Morrigan’s arms. Her lips were raw and stinging with each labored breath but unable to hold back a weary, triumphant smile. They had spent endless hours tangling and coupled together; sweaty, aching, broken and spent, pushing herself and her lover to the edge of everything they could bear. Taking Morrigan’s knot not only once or twice but _three_ times in one night had left the breeding instincts no choice but to yield. There was nothing more to take. The raging fires in her womb could finally cool to a comforting, sated warmth.

She had not felt so utterly overwhelmed with exhaustion and relief since seeing the Archdemon fall, choruses of pain singing through her every muscle but nothing louder than the swell of victory in breathless laughter. The bard couldn’t even laugh now, her throat sore and tongue useless from the cries that had broken free. Pins prickled over her skin as cooling sweat caught the breeze and she numbly tugged one of the ill-treated sheets up over them both, noting that Morrigan didn’t so much as stir at the motion.

As ravaged and undone as she felt, the witch could only be worse. They lay facing one another, letting Leliana see the flutter of lashes that accompanied Morrigan’s journeying in the Fade. The enchantment had worked some savage spell upon the apostate, matching her lust and torment to the omega’s own until neither of them could know any relief except in being one. The intensity, the sheer strength and visceral command of her passion would have had rivaled any alpha’s. Leliana’s body throbbed in testimony, used to the point of ruin but proud and satisfied.

Morrigan’s fervor had to have been more than just the magic at work. It had echoes and undertones of the Warden’s invisible influence. More than that, there was a rawness to it, unfettered and shameless; the apostate’s own nature brought to light. _Breaking free._ Leliana felt the undeniable answer in the arms that had stayed wrapped around her so jealously through the night. Neria and Morrigan alike carried that same fierceness inside themselves. The only difference was that the witch made it her shield, while Surana had honed it to a weapon instead.

Sleep weighed heavily on Leliana’s eyes but she struggled to keep them open, wanting to linger just a little more in this peace. Thick locks of black hair obscured Morrigan’s face and she delicately swept them aside, mapping the graceful contour of a delicate cheek. For once the apostate was not guarded; there were no walls of superiority or bitterness, none of the cruel lessons from her life masking the broken but beautiful perfection that lay beneath.  Leliana traced her thumb over the plush curve of Morrigan’s mouth and even from beyond dreams the witch answered with a sigh that made Leliana’s heart sing.

A thin, cruel voice from the distant past hissed and taunted from within the stinging shadows of her mind. _Marjolaine_. The redhead felt bitter memory from a life she’d all but erased trying to creep back, trying to ruin this happiness. The older woman had mocked Leliana for treasuring these moments, for marveling at the intimacy of watching another sleep, longing for the security of this embrace.  She had dismissed it as romantic folly and omega neediness; and Leliana had been young and naïve enough to believe her for years. Up until the first time Surana held her all night and lit the dawn with her smile. That was when Marjolaine’s words lost their power forever.

The Warden had loved holding her as long as she could. So many mornings she coaxed the bard to remain in her arms despite the calls of duty and loud jests from their friends. In an act as simple as gathering her lover close and refusing to let go, Neria made Leliana feel cherished. No one else had ever enveloped her in such warmth and safety, in strength that would never be harm; arms a tether that made her feel free. No one else—the redhead bit her lip and felt her breath falter beneath her ribs—until now.

So much of that comfort was echoed in this embrace. Power purred in Morrigan’s hold, just as she’d always felt with her Warden. A hum of magic, certainly, but even stronger was the sense of will that kept it contained. Leliana tilted forward and brushed her lips against the witch’s, smiling at the arm around her waist that unconsciously tightened to keep her near. Even that touch felt familiar. Morrigan’s hand on her back clung with the tension and urgency of a man about to drown, making the bard her lifeline to this world while her being wandered beyond. The force and need of that grip was a dizzying contradiction of the fingers threaded in Leliana’s hair, cradling her head as gently as a newborn.

 _Like Kieran._ A burst of emotion filled the bard’s chest until it could only escape in a bottomless sigh. A warm surge of affection tangled with the dull ache of melancholy, picturing Morrigan when she held her son for the first time. Then reverence crept in; a note of wonder as she imagined every day after and the apostate hesitantly learning this tenderness that was now so instinctive in her hands. What Flemeth had never offered and Surana couldn’t make the witch understand, Kieran had taught Morrigan in the unspoken lessons of nature itself. A spark of jealousy flashed across Leliana’s mind, wishing she could have watched mother and son grow together.

Whether it was the love for her child, the effect of Neria’s influence, or simply the passage of time: Morrigan was not the same person she remembered. A low hum of pleasure purred in Leliana’s chest as she absently trailed her fingertips up and down her lover’s spine, contemplating the change. The sharp edges had worn away. Razers had once lashed from Morrigan’s eyes and tongue with spiteful delight; now there seemed to be no relish in her words when they landed blows, no revelry in watching inferiors suffer. She was still fearsome and aloof, guarded by walls of cynicism and disdain. But Leliana had made her way past those defenses, weaving her way through the shadows and cracks of Morrigan’s mysteries until she found herself suddenly enfolded in this glorious refuge of a woman. Shamelessly passionate. Ferocious and fragile. Selfish, but with hidden yearning that could make her hands gentle and even shake. She was as irresistible as the Maker’s will.

Leliana had felt the depth of Morrigan’s touches, the way their kisses lingered and savored one another with an emotion that lay outside greed. It pulled the air from her chest and left her hollow and wanting. With the ravening lust of fever fading there was room for a new, more familiar longing to grow. One she’d never expected to feel twice in her lifetime. The bard softly stroked through hair as dark and silky as a raven’s wing, scattering feather-light kisses over Morrigan’s sleeping face. Every brush of her lips offered promises and prayers.

Beneath each set of fluttering lashes, thanks to Andraste for opening her eyes when she’d been too blind to see.

In the smooth space of a brow so often knit with scorn and irritation, praise for the beauty of the Maker’s creation.

Down the fine angle of a sculpted cheek, vows that she would show herself grateful. That she would learn and know and accept this woman in all her jaded, arrogant, impossible splendor.

In a whisper of touch against dark lips—

“You will make my life difficult,” the hoarse words rasped off her tongue. “You make everything difficult, no?” Her thumb grazed Morrigan’s cheek, affection curling her mouth to a smile. “But you are worth it. _This_ ,” she brushed another soft kiss against the witch’s sleeping lips, “Is worth it.”

Fever could not create the emotions stirring in her chest out of thin air. Breeding instincts—no matter how strong—could not override the heart; they could only lend a louder voice to what might have been whispers before. Leliana settled herself back into Morrigan’s arms, content in the certainty of what her heat had revealed. The scent of salt, lyrium and summer storms deluging a forest blaze invaded her breath as she let out a sigh. She tucked herself against the witch’s chest, letting the steady rhythm of a calm heartbeat and the rhythmic swelling waves of her lover’s breath lull her towards sleep. When they woke she would show Morrigan exactly what lay beneath the fires of fever. What lay beyond.

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The piercing sharpness of sunlight stung across Morrigan’s eyelids, forcing her to cringe and gradually wake to dawn creeping over the windowsill. There was a moment of disorientation, her body screaming that she’d been in battle, her mind still in tatters across the Fade, her limbs heavy and tangled with the weight of chains but unable to find any trace of fear. Reality bled back across her senses, clearer with each breath and heartbeat of the woman curled against her.

At some point in their sleep the witch had rolled to her back, their embrace following as fluid and relentless as water. Leliana’s cheek rested comfortably on her breast, red hair spilling messily across her chest and soft, sleepy sounds tickling her skin.  The air was different when Morrigan breathed it in.  Thick with the scent of flesh and exertion, a cramped room filled with lingering cries and ecstasy. But it was also unmistakably light, cooler; fresh in her lungs instead of smothering with fire. Morrigan inhaled it deep into herself and then set it free in a gust of relief. The fever had ended.

A low thrum of magic still pulsed faintly through her core. The apostate reached down, fingers momentarily recoiling from the cold of lifeless leather nestled between her thighs. She pulled it free with a silent wince, the wet sound and sudden emptiness amplified by the sensation of enchantments sucking her inside out as they were dragged away. The spells faded from her blood and relinquished her body back to herself in steadily stronger waves, washing away a barely noticed hint of regret.

With the toy discarded off one side of the bed Morrigan relaxed back into the sheets and Leliana’s hold. A dizzying sensation rushed through her senses, her soul falling back into herself free of the demands beyond her control. The knots of greed in her belly were gone, as was the tension between her shoulders that tightened for war the moment her hands weren’t clutching the redhead close. Yet, even with her calm and ration restored, she found she did not want to pull away. Worse, the thought of not keeping Leliana in her arms created a band of iron around her ribs, a spasm that made it hard to draw breath.

Her chest ached, holding something in that was too much and too little all at once. The voracious demand to clutch at Leliana, to make the woman tremble and moan beneath her body had faded. But the desire to caress and savor every inch of her lover and the way their bodies fit together only increased with each passing second. The pulse of her heart skipped ahead, preparing for battle.  Like hope and pain bound in every beat, dying and born anew. The fever and magic were going away. Her feelings, however, were not.

There was a hollow inside that Morrigan had never known before, not until it overflowed with the warmth of Leliana in her arms. She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut as if she could block out the confused palpitations in her heart, the chaos overruling her sense. This was even worse than the fever. Without the fog of heat or violent, carnal need distracting her mind there was nowhere to hide from the whispers that kept twisting her thoughts into new shapes. The simplicity of now was trying to tangle into something complicated, something that felt suspiciously like a tomorrow after tomorrow.

Morrigan glanced down at the sleeping omega, catching only the top of her head and the fiery tresses fanned over her skin. The color, the moment, this chaos and perfection evoked a memory nearly forgotten:

_Days of crackling flames and ash in the sky. The shouts and curses of Templars whose foolish plan to roust the Witch of the Wilds had only succeeded in killing their own. Then the stillness; that other-worldly sensation of crossing a dead land amidst blackened brush and gnarled trees. Everything had turned to death and yet there was a single splash of color. Morrigan found it entrancing as the lure of light in a dungeon. Deep red, brilliant and bright._

_Pyre Lilies._

_She’d never seen them before now. They never blossomed until scorched by fire. The plants might root and grow and live for decades without flowering even once; die without ever producing a single seed. Not unless the cruelty and blessings of fate tore across their path in scorching licks of heat. Then, when all else was ash and darkness, these flowers put forth the most magnificent, captivating crimson blooms._

Morrigan bit her lip, holding back a swell of emotion that threatened to let loose on her breath. Battle and mysteries had always pushed her to new heights, challenged her to plumb the depths of her being for victory. She’d thought herself tested by fire a hundred times over. Not until tonight though, not until surviving this scourge of heat and melting forge of desire, did she realize how it felt to travel through flame and be born anew. A bloom was unfurling beneath her ribs, tight but expansive as her heart swelled. In the ash and coals of this fever something vivid and fragile and breath-taking stole into her soul. Glorious and stubborn as a flower born of flame.

Morrigan closed her eyes, fighting to keep herself calm as she wrenched her thoughts in a hundred directions to find a single grip. How could she be so foolish as to let herself be drawn into this mess? She had spent years scornfully watching people make fools of themselves over ridiculous, deceptive affections. She had steadfastly resisted every darted glance and coy smile, every sincere word and crushed gaze without so much as a tremor in her heart. How could it be that this woman was making her pulse race and breathing falter? Why did it have to be Leliana?  Sodding damnations, she had wasted entire months of her life arguing with this stubborn girl about the selfishness and perils of letting emotion cause such weakness as this.

 _You love tormenting her too much._ Neria’s laughing accusation teased in her thoughts the same way it had on the road when they traveled together. Morrigan had bristled of course; she’d rebuked the Warden for letting her imagination get carried away to such ludicrous assertions. But now, as then, a whisper of agreement slid through the fractures of her defense. There was an allure to baiting the bard, some irresistible magnetism in seeing the sweet, Chantry girl’s eyes light up and temper flash.

She’d been generally disagreeable with all of their supposedly heroic companions, but the redhead brought out the most diabolical and cruel parts of her nature. With Leliana the urge to be harsh and cold spiked beyond her control, driven to frighten away this woman that kept looking at her like she could see past the walls. Those crystalline eyes had always gazed on her with such sincerity, an indecipherable emotion that felt too much like being touched from across the camp. The bard was immune to vicious words and deadly with her own shrewd insights. In petty jibes and biting arguments they learned and knew more of each other than anyone but the Warden herself.

It had to be Leliana. Morrigan swallowed a choke of bitterness, resigned to the brutal twist of irony. No one else could lure her past the disciplines she’d etched for herself in blood and bone. Not even Neria, because the Hero had respected her too much to push for intimacies not freely given. The omega’s breeding cycle had left them no such control. What might have been revealed in the slightest glimmers and hints over decades to come had been forced naked into the full light of day. The Nightingale had snared her; and she didn’t even want to escape.

Despite the tension and misery gnawing away in her mind, Morrigan’s hands never once lost their gentle movement. She pushed away everything except the glide of smooth skin beneath her fingertips, the warmth against her palms. There was solace in the feel of Leliana’s body completely surrendered to her touch, a reassurance that she was not lost alone.

One hand held the small of the redhead’s back to keep her close while the other traced invisible designs over the silky canvas of her shoulder. The jagged feel of Neria’s bite called to her fingers over and over again, becoming the harbor that her explorations spiraled out from but always circled back to visit. Like lightning to iron she couldn’t stop returning to the scar, mapping each indentation and the way all the disconnected pieces came together to form something whole. Perfectly complete.

This time the burst of emotion that pushed past her lips on a violent breath had no sweetness. The twinge between her ribs was suddenly sharp as a dagger blade and she froze, paralyzed by the vicious attack of her heart turning on itself. The taste of skin between her teeth made her mouth water but stomach roil in the same instant, recalling with horror how very nearly she’d given into the greedy desire to take what wasn’t hers. The witch’s hands clenched, trying to become fists, stopping only when a sleepy, anxious whimper slipped past Leliana’s lips.

Morrigan struggled to still her racing heart, to salve the bruise in her lungs that was trying to turn her inside out. Desire still curled her tongue; longing for the taste of salt and copper and the sound of her own muffled cry in anguished ecstasy, trading one piece of her soul for another. The promise of being complete. The pit growing in her belly wasn’t hunger or need. It was an ache sucking emotion out of her whole being, leaving little more than a husk raw and numb.

 _It had to be Leliana_ , Morrigan repeated the truth to herself ruefully. _And it can never be her at all._

She slid out of the bard’s grip, in slow inches and held breathes until she was free. The redhead reached unconsciously for what wasn’t there and Morrigan quickly slid a pillow into her grasp. Leliana wrapped around it immediately, burying her face in the scent the witch had left behind with a tender smile that spread fingers of melancholy into the bitter pain holding Morrigan’s ribs.

Gathering her clothing as quietly as possible the apostate spared herself a moment of indulgence when she found her leggings. A wicked satisfaction curled her lips at the sight of her under garments tangled in the wreckage of a shrine to Andraste. She was sorely tempted to leave them where they were, a fitting tribute not just to the past night but her opinion of the Chantry as a whole. In the end, she relented and gathered her clothing; but she left the shrine in its disarray.  She and Leliana had rent the heavens with their passion, why not leave a reminder that the precious Maker’s Bride had played witness the whole time?

Once she was dressed Morrigan looked back at the sleeping bard, pale skin catching the dawn light and fiery hair tossed across the pillows. The sight was a claw in her chest, desperately tugging the witch to slip back into those rumpled sheets and be there to see Leliana wake, to kiss her until she forgot every whisper of doubt. But, in the shaft of morning sunlight spilling across the bed, she saw the bite mark on the other woman’s shoulder clearly for the first time. A perfect pattern of teeth that pulsed deep red against porcelain skin, vivid as blood and vibrant as the magic that coursed in her own veins. A shiver tightened Morrigan’s spine, squaring her against all the snares and assaults life had tried using to break her.

She grabbed the handle of the door, affording herself only one last glance over her shoulder at the peace that still enshrouded Leliana. Unspoken apology sat sourly on her tongue and she bit her lip, furious that any words might try to capture such a moment. This wasn’t just weakness. She shook her head and turned away from temptation. It was wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, sorry for the delay. A bad case of swimmer's ear meant I couldn't listen to my headphones and, quite frankly, without music there is no writing. Aside from that, this whole chapter felt like trying to pull my own teeth without anesthetic. Leliana's psyche is easier to crawl into than Morrigan's but both of them were difficult here and I just hope the evolution of feeling and emotion expressed doesn't feel forced. Please let me know what you thought!


	20. Step Forward

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_Trembling, I step forward. –Trials 1:13_

Leliana woke to cold sheets. She sat up in dread and raked her eyes over the empty room. Sharp icicles stabbed between her ribs as she found no sign of comfort or promise for return. Morrigan had left without a trace. It felt like being rent open, the twist of a blade in her gut tearing her apart until she tasted blood in her mouth; she’d bit her own cheek and the salt of held tears stung her eyes.

All too quickly that soul-wrenching pain vanished under the siege of a far stronger emotion. Morrigan had left in her sleep, slinking away like a felon from crime; calloused and craven. The pit of rejection and loneliness in the bard’s chest was overwhelmed with righteous, vengeful indignation. A surge of power ignited Leliana’s blood, threatening to scorch and lay waste to anything in her path. She rose from the bed like Andraste’s vindictive spirit climbing from her pyre.

Let the witch be fearful and shamed. Let her be cruel and cold, scorn her with contempt and abandon. She could fight and dismiss and deny to the bitter end but, by the Maker, Morrigan _would_ face the truth.

Leliana refused to be hurt again.

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Morrigan glared at the page of spells that had occupied her attention for the last hour. Or at least, occupied her gaze. It did not escape her irritable notice that she hadn’t managed to decipher a single sentence, memorize even one _word_ of the incantation before her because of the chaos in her mind. She was used to Flemeth’s calloused voice deriding her failings in the space behind her thoughts. Just as she’d grown accustomed to the Warden’s brash, swaggering tones confidently teasing her to push boundaries and consider new ideas.

She’d never before experienced both voices in her head at once. Let alone loud and consumed as they were in arguing with each other. She was on the sidelines of a battlefield in her own mind. The witch rubbed at her temples, wishing she could calm or at least quiet the raging war in her head.

_It is weakness to let emotion hold sway. Love for another is only a trick that preserves their safety at your expense._

_So long as we live and breathe, we feel! Love is only weakness for those who let themselves be ruled by fear._

_There are grand schemes and cosmic fates hanging in the balance, what do two sad lives matter against the weight of a world?_

_No world worth saving trivializes the cost of a heart. Sacrifice if we must, die when we will, but never surrender that which makes our lives priceless._

_The abyss is yawning, stretched wide to swallow us all._

_Yes, it is. The truly brave gaze into that darkness and leap._

A disgusted noise of frustration accompanied the slap of the spell book getting tossed to her desk. She wasn’t going to get anywhere pretending like this. It was a waste of time to imagine her thoughts could focus on anything other than the bard that had turned her life upside down. Morrigan stared out the open window, watching a bird ascribe lazy arcs across the sky. The dark feathers of a crow caught sunlight and for a moment Morrigan was tempted to shift and join it. Out sailing the breezes and tuned to the world only in terms of eat, breathe, kill or die; all of life was so much simpler that way.

Crows mated for life. Morrigan’s lips thinned to a frown, brow furrowing in annoyance as her mind turned spiteful once more. Ravens did too. There were laws and pacts of nature that could not be broken. Like mating bonds. Humans might cling to the trappings of civilization and enlightenment but beneath lace and gildings there was still the beating heart of seasons, survival and instinct. Nowhere was that stronger than amongst the alpha and omega breeds. Of which she was neither.

Whatever spells and emotions had worked upon her during the feverish ecstasies of the night were not hers to claim. The constant, twisting pull in her chest that wondered where Leliana was with every heartbeat was not her right. Morrigan rested a hand on the flat of bone between her breasts and silently willed the noise inside to take up a new name, any other longing. Like a helpful sadist her heart listened without mercy, stuttering and summoning another aching want to twine with the pain already making her breath heavy.

Neria.

Morrigan barely contained a choke of fury. Had it come to this? Was she going to wage war with her own body and soul to cling to her sanity? Her fingers curled tight, nails digging crescents into her chest because perhaps it would be easier to simply tear the traitorous organ free. Fibers of emotion from across her being were tying into a knot that made every breath feel strained. Anger and sadness, regret and brazen greed tangled together; no one strand stronger than any of the others as they twisted and coiled around her like snaring ties.

The haunting feel of Leliana’s smooth curves molded tight against her body blended into the feel of much stronger hands holding her close. The bard’s sweet, dulcet voice and laughter made a duet with teasing words in brasher tones. The Warden’s playful touch was mirrored perfectly by Leliana’s smooth caress. Morrigan was trapped between them both, a woman on either side that stole her breath and made her heart ache. Neither of them within reach.

It was ironic, diabolical even, that fate had decided Morrigan would spend one night with each of them. A bitter laugh slipped past her without warning. Only one. For ten years she had jealously guarded the memory of that night with the Warden, treasured it as the one and only indulgence she would ever allow herself in that deep, dangerous pool of affection. Once was enough, she had grown more certain of that every day since. And yet here she was again, not just dipping her toes in the beguiling warmth of emotions but lost in the bottom and drowning.

Leliana. Morrigan pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting off the name that had laced through her thoughts roughly a thousand times in the last hour. Leliana who was claimed. Mated to the apostate’s closest friend. The dear friend she’d foolishly let herself begin to love. Neria, who’d given Morrigan a son. What in damnation would the Warden say if she knew what had happened?

_Other than ‘I told you so,’ and ask to watch._ The witch couldn’t fight a trace of humor curling the edge of her lips. There were some things that simply couldn’t be changed. More importantly there were some people that wouldn’t change, no matter what. A frisson of comfort eased the tension in her chest as she imagined the elf’s quirked brow and suggestive grin. These were the times she missed Neria most. A vague sense of loneliness gnawed in her bones, constantly aware of something lost; a longing that vanished when Leliana’s fingers warmed her skin.

“Mother, are you upset?” The small, concerned voice gently lured her from her thoughts. Morrigan hadn’t even realized her hand was squeezing her shoulder until Kieran’s light fingers rested atop her own.

“I’m fine, little man,” Morrigan assured, convinced as always that it wasn’t a lie when it wasn’t something he needed to know. She moved her hand from under his, folding her fingers together in a practiced posture of calm she didn’t feel. “I was simply thinking of old friends.”

“Missing pieces,” Kieran murmured, one finger tracing over the naked expanse of her shoulder. His touch followed an invisible pattern, the perfect shape of a bite that made her shiver and tingle as if the scar rested beneath her skin. His eyes found hers once more, dark and bottomless with mysteries. “Do you love her?”

He’d repeated the question half a dozen times over the past few days, refusing to let this riddle go unsolved. In the open wonder and ancient wisdom of his gaze she couldn’t tell if he meant the Warden who’d caused his birth or the redheaded woman he met in the garden only two days before. Nor did she know the answer in either case.

“’Tis not your concern,” she scolded a little more harshly than necessary, irritation with herself bleeding onto him.  His eyes fell away in dejection and her heart chided fiercely between beats. With a deliberate, calming breath Morrigan took her son’s hand from her shoulder, gentling her tone, “There are many things in this world you are not yet ready to understand, Kieran.”

“Is love bad?” His dark eyes were wide, fixed on her once more.

Morrigan’s stomach fell into a pit, dragging at her soul. In his gaze there was more than curiosity, there was worry; an anxious need to know. He looked at her with such absolute trust, prepared to accept her answer as truth and the next words out of her mouth would shape the world for the rest of his life. Flemeth’s harsh lessons stuck in the apostate’s throat, choked behind her certainty that she would never do to him what her mother had done to her. She would not curse him to her same fate.

“No, little man,” Morrigan shook her head, heart beating in her ribs like a bird about to be set free. “Love is neither bad nor good. ‘Tis only what we make it, and what we let it make of us.”

Kieran blinked a few times, mulling over the answer. His gaze was still wary, cautious of this powerful force that he knew so little about, yet Morrigan knew he felt so freely. His heart was open and warm and true in all the ways hers had never been.

“Do you love me, mother?” The boy cocked his head to one side, piecing together the edges of the puzzle.

“More than anything, Kieran.” Morrigan didn’t even hesitate. That conviction rose not just from her throat and lips but the deepest part of her soul. She didn’t say the words very often, endearments and affection sitting awkward on her tongue. Actions had always mattered more to her and she wrapped her arms around her son, cradling him to her with an emotion so fierce in her heart that she often feared it would destroy them both.

“What does it make you?” Kieran rested his head on her shoulder, still gazing up at her with one eye as he idly toyed with her hair like he had as a babe.

“Unstoppable.” Morrigan breathed deep the familiar scent on his skin, fresh and sweet and innocent. This wasn’t weakness; this was the power to bend and destroy worlds if she had to. She gently stroked a few stray locks from his face, the same unruly hair his other mother wore so proudly. The witch’s smile warmed with affection. “And very happy.”

“Then it’s good,” Kieran decided with a solemn nod, wrapping both his arms around Morrigan’s neck. “I love you too, mother.”

“I know, my little man.” The witch pressed her face into a tiny shoulder, the swell of emotion beneath her ribs finally letting free in a sigh. Whatever else in her life might be chaos, however stormy her heart and mind had become; this was her anchor in all things. This small boy that filled her world. From the first day she held him, she knew love couldn’t always be wrong.

 

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“You _drank_ it?!” Cassandra’s voice, while curt and quick as her battle prowess, couldn’t quite hide the hints of laughter rolling beneath her shock.

“Of course I drank it,” the Inquisitor protested. “For months my entire ability to survive has depended on someone tossing me a bottle and me drinking it! How was I supposed to know it wasn’t a potion?”

It was a beautiful morning in Skyhold’s courtyard. The sounds of armor and swords clashing blended wonderfully with the drunken warbling still rising from the Herald’s Rest. Bull’s mercenaries really could hold their liquor and carry a tune.

“Perhaps from the smell?” The Seeker rolled her eyes. Even in weary annoyance there was a flash of amusement contained in the twitch of one brow.

“Clearly you haven’t had to take very many of Elan’s recipes. I swear, she makes them worse just so I’ll miss Adan.” Trevelyan scanned the yard as they walked through it, noting half a dozen security gaps and training issues she’d have to bring up with Cullen. Perhaps when he wasn’t talking to himself quite so much.

“You dab a few drops under your nose, Inquisitor,” Cassandra explained with the patience and exacerbation of teaching a child to stand still. “The herbs are strong enough to block the scent of any omega, in heat or not.”

“Yes, but it works my way as well.” Elyn was never one to admit defeat. “I haven’t been able to taste or smell a thing since yesterday when I drank the foul concoction and that includes those horrible cheeses the Dowager Gagnon brought for supper.”

“A boon to diplomacy, no doubt.” Cassandra’s tone of dry amusement had taken time to learn. The Inquisitor had mistakenly assumed at first that the Seeker simply had no time or patience for subtleties like humor. Only to gradually realize that the Nevarran had a unique brand of scathing wit that was lost on anyone not paying attention.

“Josephine was impressed,” Elyn shrugged, darting a quick and knowing glance to the warrior at her side just in time to catch the hint of a smile.

 That the Seeker’s pleased expression didn’t vanish simply because it was caught filled her with wonder and admiration. Cassandra used to guard herself so much more; she used to school her features to keep even the slightest hint of thought from creeping across her face. Anything other than anger, at least; that she allowed free rein. Now Elyn often had the honor of seeing the Seeker reveal a breadth and depth of emotion she’d never thought possible. The warrior was possessed of tremendous feeling, and when she let it rule her face there were a thousand flashes and curls of thought to savor. Trevelyan was one of the trusted few that saw Cassandra unguarded and she never stopped being awed by that privilege.

Her attention was, regrettably, distracted by a familiar and yet completely unexpected sight nearing. She had seen Leliana without her cowl only once, at Halamshiral. At the time she’d thought it a painful waste that such a beautiful woman insisted on keeping herself to shadows. Now, watching the spymaster make her way across the courtyard completely exposed to the light of day, she realized it was probably for the best. For every five steps the redhead took another soldier fell to a beginner’s blow, another archer missed their target and at least three conversations vanished into thin air.

Without her signature hood or armor, dressed only in the simplest of tunic and breeches, Leliana should have blended in with everyone else but she stood out like a vision from the Maker himself. Her strident pace paid no mind to the attention she gathered as she made her way determinedly towards a fixed destination. She looked like an animal on the hunt. Worse: an Orlesian with a grudge.

“Is everything alright, Leliana?” The Seeker called to her friend, her commanding voice so commonplace in the training yard that no one thought it odd to hear. Perhaps no one else knew the Nevarran’s sound well enough to detect the concern beneath that casual tone.

 “Excellent, yes, Cassandra.” If the spymaster was surprised by the greeting or annoyed by the distraction, she gave absolutely no sign. Her smile was as polished as ever and she subtly altered her direction to meet them as if that had been her intention all along.

With every step that drew her closer, Trevelyan felt herself more and more astonished by what she saw. Not just because the woman was beautiful, she’d already known that. But Leliana looked so young. Her cheeks were flushed and her graceful form was light and nimble without the burdens of leather and chain. In this morning sun Leliana looked impossibly vulnerable and sweet. It was only the dangerous electricity snapping in her eyes that made her look more terrifying than ever.

“What business brings you out of the rookery?” Elyn kept her tone casual. Mentally mapping the redhead’s interrupted trajectory she realized very quickly that Leliana been headed for the main watchtower. The mages’ tower. Trevelyan groaned internally, barely holding back from a curse. That didn’t seem like trouble at all.

“Nothing urgent,” Leliana’s lilting reply dismissed any possibility for concern. Even in this oddly discomposed state her poise was perfect; her cadence smooth and calm, voice as silky as wine laced with poison. “I wish to consult with our Occult Advisor to clear up a few details.”

A few details. The Inquisitor felt ice race down her spine. The way Leliana said her answer made it sound so light and airy. A meaningless trifle, inconsequential to anyone. Yet Elyn was absolutely certain that their spymaster used the exact same words and tone to describe brutal assassinations and the cleanup after. A few details.

“We won’t keep you,” Cassandra spoke up before Trevelyan could begin to protest. There was a firmness in the Seeker’s tone that refused to tolerate argument; and her quick, darting glance gave Elyn eloquent warning. She’d already scolded the Inquisitor once for meddling in the omega’s private affairs.

“No, I suppose we won’t,” Trevelyan agreed with a quick nod. She trusted Cassandra on just about everything anymore. That faith definitely wavered though, when Leliana’s perfunctory smile curved with just a little too much malice at the edges.

“I would not want to be that witch right now,” the Seeker muttered with a shake of her head after the bard departed.

“But,” Trevelyan quickly looked up to make sure the spymaster was well beyond earshot. She kept her voice low anyway. “Her fever is over, isn’t it? She should be thinking clearly again.”

The Inquisitor had deliberately searched the air for any hint of mating heat lingering on Leliana but there wasn’t a trace. All she’d been able to smell was freshly bathed skin and the barest tang of lyrium that tasted like sparking metal on the back of her tongue. Then again, her palate was still destroyed from that suppressant oil she drank. Had she missed something?

“She is,” Cassandra confirmed, casting one last look at the receding figure of her ally. The Seeker’s eyes came back to Trevelyan with absolute conviction. “Which is why she is so much more dangerous now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might have felt a little disjointed but it was important to make sure everyone knew exactly where Morrigan and Leliana's heads are before the big confrontation. Also, I can't remember which of you brilliant people made a reference to Kieran pulling a 'parent trap' but that was definitely some of the inspiration for his scene. If no one else can ever get through to Morrigan, he can. Anyway, let me know what you thought!


	21. For you, Song-weaver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the excitement of having this one finished didn't ruin my editing. If there are mistakes, please let me know!

**Frostbacks, 9:41 Dragon**

_For you, song-weaver, once more I will try. –Andraste 1:14_

Before she even heard the knock, Morrigan knew who was on the other side of her door. She’d felt it in the steadily louder pulse of her veins as if her heartbeat were tied to the approaching footsteps. For the briefest of moments she considered not answering. To open the door would only loosen all the thoughts she’d been carefully trying to lock away. There was no shame in knowing when the wisest course of battle was retreat. The strength to face reality was nothing compared to the weakness holding her breath when she swung the door open.

Leliana stood in the doorway, her entire lithe frame drawn tall and hard. The bard’s face was a perfect mask of dignity, remote and utterly indifferent. Only her eyes betrayed her, flashing like bolts of lightning in an ice storm. The challenge in her gaze was a sharp spike to the base of Morrigan’s spine, coiling her entire body for a strike. The witch was paralyzed between warring instincts; exultant to have her traitorous heart’s desire before her, terrified of what would happen if she didn’t leave, furious with herself that she didn’t have the will to close the door once and for all.

“You need something?” Morrigan forced her breath to shape words of pure ice, her blood running cold with magic. The redhead could not know the turmoil inside her. If Leliana felt even the barest whisper of her frustrated affection she would overwhelm the witch’s defenses in an instant. She would reach past every layer of armor and fortress wall without even having to use a word, her eyes alone could strip Morrigan bare and a touch would break her.

An angry line creased Leliana’s brow, the set of her jaw making the muscle in one cheek twitch. The sudden flick of her wrist sent a missile right for Morrigan’s face and the witch barely caught it in time. Her whole hand stung from the harsh strike of a leather pouch in her palm, small but heavy. She squeezed it once, recognizing the feel of coins and growing more bewildered.

“Fifteen royals,” Leliana confirmed her suspicion, a hint of cruel satisfaction creeping into her tone. “A little more than the White Rose would’ve charged for your services.”  

It was a calculated offense, meant to be petty and hurtful. Even when Morrigan knew the bard was baiting her, she couldn’t keep from bristling. A sting like needles rose up her cheeks, anger stoking faster than logic could prevent. Leliana was deliberately insulting her to get a reaction, and Morrigan was swiftly realizing that where this cursed redhead was involved she couldn’t help falling into each and every trap.

“I was not playing your whore.” The witch spat, ice and calm forgotten. She tossed the bag aside, pouch spilling open and coins scattering across the floor.

“Neither was I,” the bard shot back just as sharp, fury dissolving the last of her mask. Her mouth twisted into a shape that on any  lips less lovely would have been a sneer. “But it was you that snuck out as soon as my heat waned. You that lost interest once there were no pleasures left to take.”

“Is that how you see it?” Morrigan feigned injury, her mocking smile twisting to spite. “Because from your screams I am quite certain ‘twas you that did all the taking _._ ”

The witch had only a heartbeat to see the flash of naked rage in Leliana’s eyes before the blow landed. Morrigan nearly staggered back, hand immediately going to her face. Leliana had slapped her. Not that open-palmed affectation of Orlesian dandies; the back of the bard’s hand had struck her cheek with as much force and knuckle as a fist.

“You are going to regret that.” The control of Morrigan’s voice passed straight through temper and crouched in the eye of a storm of perfect wrath. The entire right side of her face throbbed an angry red beneath her hand and the taste of blood was coating her tongue.

“Never.” Leliana stood even taller. She held herself with the same infuriating audacity that had squared her against darkspawn hordes and demonic temptations.  The fearlessness of her stance belonged on a battlefield in armor, not in the door of Morrigan’s chamber dressed only in loose cotton and an unlaced collar.

She had no right to look like that; certain, triumphant, fierce and stubborn. The witch hated Leliana for looking so smug. Hated herself because even with indignation boiling in her veins she was captivated by that savage fire in the redhead’s eyes.  Everything inside her had gone silent except for the need to steal victory back from the bard, to wipe that smile away and make her feel the same coppery pain scorching her mouth.

Morrigan caught the spymaster’s lower lip before realizing she’d moved. The bite was harsh and swift, the sting of nails raking at her nothing compared to the rush of triumph when a taste of warm metal hit her tongue. She drew it in, unconsciously savoring the feel of the wounded lip against her own. Morigan didn’t know how or when the painful grip on her shoulders stopped trying to push her away and pulled her closer instead. Her senses were unraveling into Leliana’s control, vengeful attack turning into a searing kiss.

The bard refused to release her hold, even when Morrigan dragged her fully into the room and slammed the door shut with the weight of her body pinning Leliana to the wood. The spymaster wrestled beneath her, hands grappling for leverage, the door groaning beneath them like the whimpers neither would let free. Morrigan suddenly found herself shoved back, Leliana lunging forward and trapping her against the wall. Lips against her own demanded surrender, grasping fingers clutching her throat like a threat to keep her subdued as the bard plundered her mouth.

Morrigan refused to be so easily dominated. A gust of magic switched their positions, Leliana’s back forced against the wall so quickly that a sound of surprise burst from her tongue. The apostate allowed a flash of conceit to grace her smile before capturing those plush lips in another bruising kiss. The silent war changed its tone, bodies tense and twisting as they fell to battling themselves more than each other.

Morrigan could feel they were both losing. The will to fight was fading, violence and the need for pain quickly giving way to the relief of being pressed together. Clawing fingers and brutal hands were becoming hungry strokes, holding on instead of holding back. The thrashing resistance of trying to break free fell into an instinctive rhythm, familiar as the shallow breaths passing between their lips. Fingers tangled in hair and clothing, Morrigan slipping her hands beneath loose linen to feel the bard’s taut stomach shiver and clench with every roll of her hips.  War and surrender blurred into one and the only triumph—the sweetest victory—was a single helpless groan of frustration. That strangled sound of self-loathing ended in a gasp that echoed off the walls and Morrigan couldn’t tell which of them it came from, only that it was permission to give in.

“Mother?” The confused voice hit both women like an ice blast.  Morrigan didn’t have to look back to know, she could see in Leliana’s startled eyes that Kieran had come into the room. She could hear his hesitant steps approaching from behind and much as she adored him with every fiber of her being, she cursed his timing.

“Yes, Kieran?”  The witch did her best to force her voice to come out clear and steady despite the thick feel of arousal coating her tongue. She looked over her shoulder at the boy, trusting the warmth in her tone to hide her impatience.

“Are you alright?” He stopped a few feet away, head cocked quizzically to one side. His eyes moved back and forth between her and Leliana, the cogs and gears in his mind spinning so hard she could swear there was a hum. He was still so remarkably innocent. The witch wasn’t sure if that was a success or failing on her part.

Leliana started to push her away but Morrigan braced her free hand on the wall, silently commanding the bard to stay.  Lock-picking fingers had already made swift work of the thongs and straps that held her upper garments in place. To step away now would only guarantee the boy saw more than just his mother in an embrace.

“Everything is fine, little man. Go to the gardens and I will join you later,” Morrigan’s calm reassurance artfully twined suggestion with a command. Kieran paused and for a moment she feared she would be forced to make it an order. Even Leliana was holding her breath. After several heart-stopping seconds he finally relented.

“Very well, thank you, Mother,” Kieran’s polite nod mostly hid the subtler inflection of excitement in his tone. He moved to the door, taking the widest possible arc around his mother and her friend. Only once the door had shut behind him did Leliana let out a massive, tortured breath.

“At least he listens very well, yes?” The bard drew Morrigan’s eyes back to her. That crystalline blue gaze swept over her face, studying every line and twitch for cues. Leliana didn’t lure the witch back into their kiss, but neither did she let her go completely. Like standing on the threshold of another world, this was the point where time froze and waited.

Morrigan stepped back. The ties of her scant upper garments came away in Leliana’s hand but she couldn’t be bothered to care. The way the redhead’s breath hitched in surprise, eyes turning to bruises, made her decision. Grabbing Leliana’s wrist the apostate headed straight for her private room. Here she could close the door and be certain of privacy. Here she could face Leliana and . . .feel her tongue go dry at the sight of the bard posed in front of her bed with a sinfully dark, lidded gaze.

The urge to lunge forward and pin the redhead to the sheets had Morrigan’s toes and fingers curling. It would be easy to lose herself in that welcoming body once more, to forget her own name until it broke from Leliana’s lips in perfect song. A sickening roil of horror reminded Morrigan that was exactly how they’d ended up like this in the first place. It was those desires that nearly made her break faith with her only friend.

“Why are you here?” The witch tried to make her question a demand but there was a crack in her voice, too much of the torment fracturing her control.

A stiffness crept into Leliana’s shoulders, her chin tilting up as if she’d been challenged. For a heartbeat Morrigan hoped the bard would fight her again. They could spit insults or lash out and become lost in a world of pride and pain that left everything else aside. It would be so much safer to return to the vehement hostility that had marked their past relationship and pretend the rest never happened. A tiny voice—small and traitorous—beneath Morrigan’s thoughts pointed out that Leliana would not come to her straight from bed barely dressed or let herself be ravished against a wall if she wanted a fight.

“You left,” the redhead accused, defiance and reproach in such simple words. Her eyes stayed fixed on Morrigan, scything into her with diamond blades. There could be no excuse, no apology or justification for the injury in that gaze. “You left and I woke up alone.”

The weight of that simple fact bowed Morrigan’s shoulders, a feeling of defeat hollowing her bones. In the depth of Leliana’s low tone there was a bottomless sense of loss, an echo to everything the witch already knew. She was not speaking as an omega or even a mate, just a woman nearly broken by grief and isolation. Her body moved without thought, reaching for the bard and letting out a grateful sigh when Leliana let herself be pulled close.

“You’re never alone.” Morrigan’s hand teased up a cotton sleeve and slipped inside the tunic collar. She traced the scar that pulsed like a heart beneath her fingertips, delicately resting over the rough skin. That familiar, nameless longing swelled beneath her breath. “She’s here.” The witch wasn’t sure if she was telling herself or Leliana. Her lips ached to freshen the claim, to ground Leliana back in the bond that would be there until death. Far worse was the clench in her jaw, the urge to leave her own mark and etch her name into the blood and bone of this woman that infuriated and fascinated and filled her with a thrill she hadn’t known since a roguish, fiery Warden turned her world inside out. She bit her lip, forcing words over the shudder on her tongue, “She’s with you.”

“And you?” Leliana covered Morrigan’s hand with her own, holding tight to keep her from slipping away like the eyes avoiding her gaze. “Where are you?”

The redhead’s other hand stroked her face, delicate fingers brushing away thick strands of hair and luring her back to meet warm, crystal depths. The bard had become a master at hiding her vulnerabilities behind confident smiles, her weakness or doubts adorned in radiant laughter and shielded by wit. But there was no hiding the yearning beneath that innocent question; a genuine, gnawing need to know reaching out between her words.

There was an irresistible tug on her tongue to take refuge in lies. Even with that penetrating gaze devouring her like straw in a flame. It would be easy. She could blame the fever and the past; seek the safety of logic and condescension that could hold the world at bay. It wasn’t easy enough. Her soul was too weary. Worn down by memories, overwhelmed with each moment, Morrigan was lost in deepening spirals of emotion that had yawned open to drag her in. Neria’s laughter, Leliana’s lips, Kieran’s gentle hands; denying one meant denying them all. The thought of fleeing from these emotions suddenly left a bitter, cowardly taste on her tongue.

“I’m here too.” Morrigan tried to make the words strong and assertive but was barely able to wrestle the hushed confession free. “I’m with you,” she took a shaky breath, eyes searching the room for invisible strength before fixing on the hope blooming in Leliana’s face. She knew the warm happiness rising in that gaze didn’t belong on her. “But I shouldn’t be,” Morrigan shook her head, pulling away. “You have a mate.”

Firm hands refused to let her escape, Leliana’s eyes still soft as a caress on her face but charged with new light.

“Neria is the first and forever of my heart.” The bard kept a hand on Morrigan’s cheek, holding her firmly in place. “That does not mean there is no more room. You are the mother of her child. That beautiful boy with her eyes and smile would not be alive if not for you. _She_ might not be alive if not for you,” Leliana’s breath hitched, her eyes turning watery with emotion.  “You protected her when I couldn’t and you love her no matter how much you want to deny it. You and I? We are irrevocably bound together, Morrigan. And I am glad because otherwise I might never have known my heart and you would never have heard me,” a hint of amusement rolled beneath her tone, rueful but accepting. 

Her thumb slowly grazed Morrigan’s cheek, coaxing her lips away from that sad line. Leliana’s eyes grew more electric with each sentence, daring the witch to deny a single word. “Maker help me, you are the most willful, arrogant and difficult woman I have ever known; but you are also fearless, passionate and tender. I love that, Morrigan. I want to love you, if you’ll let me.”

A tremor of emotion choked Leliana’s breath and the bard was instantly in her arms, neither of them certain who had moved first. All that mattered was that Morrigan could wrap both arms tight around the other woman and hold her as a dizzying surge of emotion swept her mind to pieces and left only the echo of those words ringing again and again.

“’Tis all so unexpected,” Morrigan’s breath trembled as she struggled with her objection, bewildered by the new and sudden thrill flooding her chest. She felt more vulnerable than she could ever remember, frustrated by foreign sensations twisting beneath her ribs. “I have no experience with any of it. And yet,” Leliana’s gaze was filling her up with certainties, words she didn’t know untangling off her tongue, “I find myself wanting it. Hungering for it.” The confidence swelling inside her buoyed Morrigan to the final, irrevocable confession, “For you.”

Delicate hands cupped her cheeks, Leliana’s eyes brimming over with awe and affection as she drew the witch into a kiss. The caress of her lips was eloquent in tenderness and longing, deeper than anything they had shared as both women offered themselves without trace of wall or reservation.

“Then have me.” Leliana’s mouth grazed the witch’s cheek as she guided Morrigan’s lips down her neck. The apostate followed willingly, the loose collar of the tunic easily pushed aside to let her feel bare skin beneath her mouth. Unblemished and unmarked. A small sound crept past her lips, anguish and relief in a single breath. Leliana held her gently in place, placing a kiss on Morrigan’s own naked shoulder before raising goosebumps with warm words, “Have me, Morrigan.”

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Leliana wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she drew the witch to her once more. This wasn’t it. This torture of Morrigan’s hands trailing over her skin, eliciting shivers and sighs with each new discovery was more than she’d dared imagine. The apostate’s touches had been so demanding before, so hungry and sure. Now, as her tunic was stripped away and long fingers glided over Leliana’s body, it was like being touched by a completely different person. Hesitation slowed Morrigan’s hands, growing more confident with each gasp and shudder her fingers awoke.

The bard only realized she was naked when she felt herself guided back to the bed. Cool sheets raised goosebumps down her spine, but not as much as gold eyes sweeping over her with such an unmistakably possessive gleam. Morrigan’s tongue against hers shaped unspoken words, silent confessions and promises pouring back and forth between their lips. She didn’t know when the witch had shed her own scant clothing but the feel of naked flesh in her hands was a tether, a truth she could cling to while her body was deliberately lured into revolt.

There was reverence in Morrigan’s mouth moving down her skin, as if each kiss were the entreaty of demons waiting to be cleansed. Or determined to corrupt her with sin. Leliana arched, choking at the feel of hot breath between her thighs. Lips trailed along each side of trembling muscle, biting just hard enough to make the bard’s entire body tense and lift part way from the sheets. She grounded herself against the bed, grabbing handfuls of the linens and determined not to let this pleasure be rushed.

One fist was pried loose, Morrigan’s nimble fingers tugging the bard’s hand down to brush smooth hair. Leliana didn’t even have to think, instinctively unwinding the knot that held ebony tresses tightly in place and letting them spill free. She looked down, determined to memorize the perfection of raven hair spread over her thighs and her eyes locked with Morrigan’s. That feral, golden color was honey and fire, burning into her to savor the first press of lips against Leliana’s sex.

“Maker!” Arousal rent her open, as much from the sight as the feel of the witch’s tongue parting her folds. A deep purr rose across Morrigan’s lips, moaning in the pleasure of slaking her own thirst. Because it had to be thirst, the intensity and hunger behind every slick caress and curling plunge into her core. Leliana threaded her fingers into the other woman’s hair, trying to slow the greedy licks that were plundering every drop of nectar as it spilled down her inner walls.

Her hips rolled without permission, following each twist of Morrigan’s tongue to draw the pleasure deeper.  Too fast. Leliana bit her lip, tightening her grip in sheets and hair. Too fast and it had been too long since she’d felt this intimacy lavished over her soaking flesh. Then fingers replaced the slippery curl of tongue and Leliana felt Morrigan spreading her folds, finding the stiff, throbbing bud that tore a cry from her throat at the first touch of lips.

Licks of fire and lightning danced all around that pulsing jewel, swirling and lashing and sucking in time with the ripple of her inner walls clutching at the witch’s fingers. Morrigan’s eyes stayed on her, devouring each gasp that parted her lips and the song of breathless moans spilling free. The bard could see thrilled pride in that gaze; the glorying, overwhelming delight of tasting her lover as she succumbed.

Leliana felt herself unfurling beneath Morrigan’s touch, waves of warmth washing her further into and away from herself and she fought to hold back, to hang on. She didn’t want to lose Morrigan’s golden gaze and warm hands, the languid, persuasive caress of her mouth drawing the bard closer and closer. The witch’s name broke past her lips, struggling to make a sound that could capture the sudden and overwhelming burst of emotion choking her breath. Shaky fingers searched for Morrigan’s hand and the witch immediately understood what Leliana couldn’t explain.

“I’m here.” The apostate slid up her body, caressing every inch of her with the heat and tenderness of bare skin. She interwove their legs, pressing one thigh against her aching sex and brought her lips close to the bard’s ear. “I’m with you, Leliana.”

The redhead’s body arched with a groan, fire spreading through her veins. Fresh arousal painted Morrigan’s thigh and Leliana forced her tongue to untangle on a desperate plea, “Again.”

The lips exploring up and down her ear turned into a smile, the witch deliberately rolling her hips to trigger that same spark.

“My name,” the spymaster shook her head frantically; fingers in Morrigan’s hair pulled her back to stare into the glowing flame of her eyes. Awe and need mingled in the bard’s voice, words barely rasping past the clench of her throat, “You’ve never said my name.”

Light dawned across Morrigan’s dark gaze, the glitter of stars dancing in the Void. The witch brought her lips close enough to kiss, a hair’s breadth away from touching so the redhead felt as much as heard the sweet murmur of her name repeating once more.

“Leliana,” the apostate’s tone whispered in notes of possessiveness and wonder.  Again and again she let the name fall free, matching the rhythm of her body.

Leliana met the roll of her lover’s hips, lifting her own thigh and savoring the long groan that filled the air when Morrigan’s slick heat ground against her. Maker Above, she felt like a furnace against the bard’s skin. So wet that Leliana could feel streams of arousal between their rocking flesh. Excitement and pride surged up the bard’s spine, full of the glory of knowing _she_ had done this to the witch; that Morrigan’s want for her was trickling over her thigh.

The rhythm of their bodies moving together refused to rush.  Lips and fingers lingered in slow, luxuriant caresses, trading adorations in touches and sighs. A fine sheen of sweat coated every inch of them, smoothing the glide and sending shivers to follow each gasp and breeze. Infinite seconds were measured in the echo of her lover’s heartbeat in Leliana’s veins.

She kept her eyes on Morrigan, fingers threaded in damp strands of hair beside her face. The bottomless want in those smoldering flames drew her in, severed any distance or idea of where her body ended and the witch’s began. Moans vibrating through her chest were hers and Morrigan’s and both together. The roll of hips followed waves of pleasure passing back and forth between them, pulses of warmth melting them closer into each other. 

Only the swell of emotion in Leliana’s chest remained her own; the excruciating want to sear this woman into her soul. Her shoulder throbbed in time with her quickening heart, skipping beats and racing ahead to the excitement of that final joining, the taste of it already sharp on her tongue.

“Please, Morrigan,” Leliana’s plea rasped over her lover’s cheek. Sparks were filling her belly, rising in her veins, bursting at the edge of her vision. The light touch of her fingers turned insistent, pulling Morrigan towards where she needed her most.  The bard’s lips were quick to find her lover’s neck, salt and heat scorching her mouth as she followed the irresistible draw of a pulse that beat faster and harder with every kiss.

The smooth warmth of Morrigan’s lips on her shoulder sent a quake through Leliana, her body tensing and falling out of time. The witch didn’t stop though, continuing to coax the breaking waves closer to the point of washing her away. Leliana clung to her lover, teeth grazing the tender skin of the apostate’s shoulder and feeling an absolute song rise inside her at the way the woman trembled from her touch. A long, shaking breath sent chills down her spine and Leliana felt the witch tense and hesitate.

_No_ , the bard almost sobbed, _Please, please, no. I need this. Need you._ She couldn’t force the words free, couldn’t even beg the Maker or his Bride within the urgent despair of her thoughts. She knew Morrigan had already given herself over, would belong to her if that was all Leliana wished but it wasn’t enough. She managed to drag her mouth away, choking down a miserable groan in her throat.

“Morrigan,” the break in her voice matched the cracks spreading across her soul. Words climbed up from the depth of her being, dragging over her tongue like the judgments of Andraste, “I’m already yours.”

A fiery sigh shook the witch clear to her toes and she softened in Leliana’s embrace.

“Mine,” Morrigan whispered, full of reverence and relief. Her lips scattered kisses all over the bard’s shoulder. There was a brief promise of teeth against skin and the redhead felt tears burning at the edge of her eyes. She found the smooth expanse of Morrigan’s flesh once more, relishing the silky feel beneath her tongue.

The pulsing heat rising from her core was bursting at the seams, jolts of electricity racing up and down her veins in time with every press of the witch’s thigh.  The first tremors licked up her spine and Leliana set her teeth, nerves humming with the building note of ecstasy within reach.

“I have you, Leliana,” a final breath ghosted across the bard’s trembling skin. The feel of her mouth was hot and moist; then sharpness tore across Leliana’s senses and she bit down, muffling her scream into Morrigan’s broken skin.  Bliss washed through her; in copper and salt and the passionate, intoxicating perfection flooding her entire being. 

She held on as tight and long as she could, holding back breathless moans that built in her chest with each burst of pleasure carrying her higher. Leliana could feel her lover’s body quaking against her, drenching her thigh and the sheets in a melting stream of release. When she couldn’t keep the noises in her throat from breaking free the bard’s head fell back, giving voice to tremulous notes and broken gasps that filled the entire room.

_Mine._ Her soul joined with her body and reached out to coil around Morrigan, filling her lover with that same triumphant certainty.

_Mine._ The echo resonated in the caress of the witch’s lips soothing her fresh wound with kisses. Feather-light brushes of apology without a hint of regret.

Leliana found Morrigan’s mouth, stealing her breath in a deep, soul-searching kiss that elicited a harmony of sighs as they fell into each other.  Breath flowed together, heartbeats pulsing in time until a single instinct tied them into one, unbreakable and complete. _Yours._

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Tempting as it was to linger in the afterglow and indulge in all the new shapes and edges of their bond, neither woman was willing to ignore duty. A world in chaos is not kind to lovers and they climbed begrudgingly from the sheets. Clothing was replaced between hungry glances and distracting hands. Being apart was nearly as painful as during Leliana’s heat, but the throb in her shoulder kept her company. She listened to reports and issued orders to her agents, all the while with Morrigan’s claim itching beneath her armor. A dull ache that echoed the promise they’d be back together by night. 

Morrigan spent the entire afternoon with Kieran in the garden. If any of the other denizens noticed her smile they were certain to ascribe it to the affection she so easily showed for her son. Only Kieran himself kept studying her expression with that pensive fascination that always twisted his brow in the face of puzzles. Her garment concealed the mark on her shoulder and yet she could tell his eyes were drifting continually back to that exact spot. Still, his youthful curiosity was tempered by an ancient soul and he wisely stayed silent, confident that what was his to know would be revealed. Just as he’d always trusted his mother to share secrets when the time was right.

When they were finally back in the witch’s room, intertwined beneath the sheets under moonlight, there was an easy comfort in trading carnal passion for an affectionate embrace. Sharing warmth and closeness, savoring the simple freedom of touches that didn’t have to have purpose or need. The apostate’s fingers wandered over her lover’s skin, mapping the long line of an arm, the contour of ribs, gliding into the dip of her waist and over the flare of a hip only to slowly return and enjoy the trail all over again.

Morrigan felt Leliana’s hand resting possessively on her shoulder, tracing the healing punctures with a hum of pride.  The gemstone blue of her eyes were heavy with sleep, disappearing behind long lashes as she drifted further towards dreams. There was no doubt in the way the bard relaxed so completely in her arms; Leliana was certain she could go to sleep and this time not wake alone. Morrigan pressed a light kiss to the redhead’s brow, not an apology for before but an assurance for tomorrow.

“Morrigan?” Leliana’s drowsy voice had a thicker, sweeter caress of her name.

“Hmm?” The witch didn’t halt her touches, fingers the lullaby coaxing them both to sleep.

“I’ve wanted to slap you like that for years.” A rich purr of laughter vibrated through them both.

Even exhausted from emotional upheavals and the intimacies they’d shared, Nightingale was still stubborn enough to insist on winning the last fight. Morrigan’s lips turned up in pride. It was code of course, a spymaster’s habit of speaking in riddles. The completely unsentimental admission was laced in the tones of a deeper confession within. Leliana felt no remorse. There would never be any regrets tied to these choices, to the path that led them here.

“I am glad.” Morrigan dropped a kiss against the other woman’s lips, silently assuring that she understood. The bard’s airy sigh closed the matter and gave them both permission to surrender to sleep.

Perhaps if Leliana _had_ slapped her years before they would have admitted and succumbed to this attraction much sooner. They might have ended up naked in each other’s arms long ago. But it wouldn’t be the same. This longer journey was what allowed space in their hearts for so much more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAND that's technically the end of the story! From here anything extra is bonus and yes, I do have a couple ideas. 
> 
> Finishing details first! - Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, the tension, buildup, climax and resolution etc. Characters in character, emotions appropriate, romance present without being too horribly sticky, etc. 
> 
> As to the epilogue-ish chapters. The next one will have the much anticipated Warden making an appearance with our lovely leading ladies. As such, I'd like to invite opinions. This omegaverse three-way can go (ironically) three ways.  
> 1) cliche/classic: Omega in the middle  
> 2) Power play: Alpha in the middle  
> 3) Romantic: Beta in the middle  
> Let me know what you guys would most like to see.


	22. I Shall Not be Left to Wander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is RIDICULOUSLY long and NSFW. Because y'all got greedy and I stopped being able to say no a long time ago. Seriously, take a bathroom break and grab some water before you start. Also, double check the tags - this chapter contains (hopefully tasteful) DP so don't read if that's a turn off for you.

**??????**

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. –Trials 1:14_

 

Leliana had slept in beds of every possible kind. Her earliest memory was of sharing her mother’s cot in the servants’ quarters, enveloped in the scent of Andraste’s Grace and a heartbeat louder than the world. Then there had been the sumptuous beds of silk and velvet, cushions gilded in lace and silver thread; designed for indulgences well beyond sleep. She’d made the roots of a tree her pillow, shivering and too afraid to light a fire in case it alerted the soldiers chasing her. Compared to that, even the utilitarian sparsity of Chantry beds felt luxurious, a relief that was nearly sublime when she first crept between threadbare sheets. But nowhere in her journeys had she slept more happily, more at peace, than on a thin bedroll beneath open stars in the middle of a Blight infested land.

That was why she wasn’t entirely surprised to blink her heavy eyes open and find herself warmed before a huge, crackling bonfire. No matter where her body rested, on scratchy straw or decadent satin, this was where she found herself in the Fade. This was where the Warden drew her. Never to any of the lovelier bedchambers they’d found at inns along the road, or that delightful refuge in Jader, or even the Chantry in Valence where they’d sealed their bond. No, it had to be this starlit camp with rocks digging into her ribs and a company of seven friends lurking about. Not to mention the dog. The sigh that swelled Leliana’s chest was utterly content. This was still as close to home as either of them had ever found.

The bard rolled over and was immediately faced with Neria sitting beside her. _Still alive._ Leliana let out a tiny breath of relief. With the faith of Andraste herself, the redhead was certain that she would know the instant her beloved’s heart stopped beating because her own would break. That didn’t make it any less wonderful when these nights happened, a chance for the mage to reach across the Fade and assure her mate that she was alive and longing for her. The elf sat, gazing down at her with a contented smile, legs crossed and chin resting in one palm as if she’d been studying the bard for hours. Perhaps she had.

“So now it is you watching me as I sleep, yes?” Leliana teased, shifting close enough to lay her head in the Warden’s lap and look up at her. In this position they had whiled away so many nights; trading stories and laughter, flirtations and shy promises. The elf absently began running her fingers through red hair, the same instinctive comfort in her touch as back then.

“Always.” Neria’s cocky smile hadn’t changed, or lost the playful affection in her tone that glossed so easily over the truth. They both knew how seldom they found themselves here, the urgency of their separate missions almost never allowing them both to escape at the same moment. But they had a pact never to discuss such things, to never let the melancholy of their present lives tarnish these precious nights.

“Silver tongued and still such a terrible liar,” Leliana scoffed, poking the Warden’s thigh in the exact ticklish spot she’d memorized from a thousand explorations. “Where were you during my heat, then? Hiding behind memories?”

“At least I made sure you had good dreams!” Neria’s protest choked on laughter, grabbing for the tormenting fingers. She caught Leliana’s hand and forced her to be still. “I couldn’t help with your fever, Leli.” Genuine sorrow swam in her eyes, lips pressing an apology to the back of the bard’s wrist.  Then her gaze lit once more with fiendish amusement. “But I was sure you’d find the right solution.”

Neria’s other hand traced over the omega’s shoulder, barely grazing the wound that was fading into a scar. She touched the mark with such familiar affection, like some long-lost treasure restored to her possession. Even the way she looked at it reminded Leliana of the confidence she radiated in gazing across a bloody battlefield; not arrogant with victory but calm and satisfied.

“When did you know?” The spymaster felt the same low frisson of suspense that tickled her senses whenever new secrets unfurled before her. She had the shape of this mystery, and the size and meaning, but there were still pieces missing. The crucial parts already in place had unlocked truth, now it was only details that remained; the tiny elements that added depth and color.

“At the Eluvian.” For once Neria didn’t pretend to not know what the redhead was asking. Her eyes were already falling backward in time, growing shadowed with the past. “Seeing her woke a sense I hadn’t felt before, close to the way you call to me but not the same. It didn’t feel like I was incomplete, not how I feel without you.” The Warden’s eyes came back to Leliana, stroking one hand over her cheek. “Morrigan felt like lyrium; not changing anything about who I am, but making me something more.”

 “You were more powerful with her.” Leliana vividly recalled the way the mage and apostate’s spells intertwined, two extremes that became wholly new and perfect together. She should’ve known then that the bond between them lay deeper than friendship. Magic had its own rules, with forces beyond instinct and understanding.

“Which is probably why we should’ve known better than to mix blood magic and breeding.” Neria’s rueful chuckle didn’t quite hide the sour note on her tongue, frustration that had aged into little more than regret.

It wasn’t as sharp as when the Warden had first returned from the southern wastes. Then Surana actually _had_ seemed like she was missing a piece of herself. There was an absence beneath her typical swagger, a sense of something lost before it was even found.  The bard had assumed the constant pain inside Neria’s eyes came from only the briefest of moments with her son, the torture of knowing exactly how beautiful her child was but never being able to see him again. Except that overly simple answer could never explain the wistfulness Leliana so often found filling her own sighs, the disappointment that tinged her thoughts anytime her mind turned to wondering what had happened to the elusive witch.

“Have you seen her?” The redhead turned her head to look around the camp, half expecting she might spy Morrigan’s tent set on the periphery like before. That obdurate symbol of keeping herself isolated at all cost.

“Not since Kieran was a baby,” the Warden’s eyes also instinctively traveled to the shadowed area that would’ve been Morrigan’s space. There wasn’t even a bedroll or fire, an eloquent confession of how completely the witch had erased herself. Neria turned her attention back to her mate, resignation saddening her smile. “She blocked everyone from finding her in the Fade. It was one of the only ways to protect him.  She did the right thing but I haven’t been able to feel her for ten years. I didn’t even know where she was until I sensed her with you.”

”Ah, and that was when you decided to withdraw and let nature take its course?” Leliana playfully lured her beloved away from those tortured thoughts. Neria took such pains to make everyone else smile; it was only with her mate that she let herself be grave and even weak. It had taken a long time to understand the elf didn’t want succor at those times, didn’t want to be coddled and comforted. Surana clung to sharp wit and bright laughter the way soldiers gripped a weapon.

“I didn’t think it would take very long. You two were always fire and fuse.” The Warden’s cocky grin slid back into place, erasing all tension with a grateful sigh.

“Sword and scabbard too, it would seem.” The bard’s voice dropped to a sweet purr, finding Neria’s hand and guiding fingertips to drift down her skin. “Though now that my heat is done, she enjoys being the sheath as often as the blade.”

“Maker, Leliana, the things you say,” Neria groaned, her cheeks immediately flushing a pretty pink. From where she rested in the Warden’s lap, Leliana could pick up rising notes of arousal and knew her words had hit their mark. Just as she knew when Surana’s touch dipped between her thighs she felt the growing dampness.  The redhead rose up enough to catch her mate’s lips in a kiss, muffling the gasp when those skilled fingers swirled knowingly through the heat of her folds.

“Summon her,” Leliana breathed, one hand fisted tight in Neria’s messy hair to keep her lips close.

“I don’t think I—,” the Warden started to protest but was silenced in a harder kiss, teeth erasing her arguments.

“You can feel her with me, yes? If you can find me then you can find her too.” Leliana’s shoulder still had that delicious ache anytime her thoughts wandered towards the witch. The bond was new enough that it provided a constant, dull hum; a reminder that their bodies accepted each other and grew closer day by day.

“I can,” Surana slowly confirmed, eyes darting away when yearning bled into her tone more than she cared to admit.  Her fingers had stilled and Leliana didn’t even notice enough to complain. There was peace and delight in being here with Neria, her touch and voice and smile healing the bard’s battered soul. But her heart was weighed with a feeling of perfection unfinished, a piece of her longing for the woman that she’d fallen asleep beside as well. A chance for all three of them to be together, even in this distant Beyond, was too sweet a promise to let slip away.

“Bring her here, Neria. She misses you almost as much as I do.” Leliana thought of how Morrigan’s eyes grew distant whenever they spoke of the Warden, her clipped and practical tones becoming slow as if her words were mired in the past.  It made the redhead’s chest ache with a sympathy dangerously close to guilt. “Perhaps more in some ways, since I have had you all these years and she hasn’t.”

The Warden didn’t answer, eyes still fixed on some invisible fascination off to one side and her brow furrowed with arguments that couldn’t make it past her tongue. Leliana hadn’t seen her look this nervous since the day they stepped into the Chantry of Valence to meet Mother Dorothea. What had comforted her then would surely work now, no? Affection tugged one corner of Leliana’s mouth and she lay back on the ground, settling in the Warden’s lap once more.

“I’m with you, my love. Trust me.” The redhead stroked her hand against the elf’s cheek and smiled wider when long fingers caught hers and held her in place. Surana didn’t look down at her, didn’t look at anything before she gave a decisive nod and screwed her eyes shut in concentration.

Shaping the Fade was a mystery in itself, the elastic nature of a reality that was still irrevocably tied to their physical world. Leliana had often watched and wondered at Neria’s creative tricks and playful flourishes in bending this ethereal place to her will. She had never seen another summoned though, never felt the domain of dreams buckle and warp to make way for something true. Leliana felt the ghostly chill of an arm around her waist, then a body wrapped around her side. She held her breath, awed by the sensation of the spectral shape filling in with warmth and a heartbeat and then a sudden sigh.

“I had wondered when you might make an appearance.” Morrigan didn’t even open her eyes at first, merely quirked one knowing brow. Then a slow smile spread across her lips, languid as a sleeping cat she lazily gazed up at the Warden. “I thought ‘twould be weeks ago.”

Even that superior tone wasn’t enough to cool the pleasure warming her eyes. The witch didn’t appear the slightest bit perturbed at being called across the Fade. She felt wonderfully relaxed against Leliana’s side, her fingers waking up enough to glide up a pale arm. The bard instantly knew she wanted to get used to this; having her lovers’ together and enjoying both their touches at once.

“I didn’t want to intrude.” Neria’s smirk utterly denied any interest in being polite. Her eyes raked over the naked apostate, drinking in the curves and planes of a lover lost but never forgotten.

“Rubbish.” Morrigan’s scoffing rebuke only made the Warden smile more. “You simply wanted to be sure we came to our own understanding without your interference.” The witch sat up, seemingly unaware of Leliana’s petulant noise of protest when her side went cold. They could argue if they must, but why did that mean she should suffer?

 “And did you?” The Warden’s head tilted to one side, unable to conceal the smugness in her expression.

“What do you think?” Morrigan pulled the bard upright and drew her close to keep warm once more. Leliana easily molded into the welcome embrace, a soft hum of approval passing her lips when Morrigan took her in a lingering kiss. The witch’s mouth was tender but insistent, coaxing coral lips to part and accept her claim. Almost as soon as Morrigan’s tongue swiped hers and erased her senses, the heat of her mouth was gone. Leliana’s teeth snapped shut, silencing a sharp complaint.

“I think,” Neria swallowed, failing to clear the thickening lust from her tone. “I think I’m glad. And I think I’m bloody jealous I didn’t get to be there to watch.”

“You would not have been content to watch,” the witch laughed, pleased with the Warden’s reaction. One finger was tracing absently down the line of the redhead’s throat and she couldn’t tell if it was meant to torture her or Surana. The light touch dipped into her collar and down between her breasts, igniting a trail of fire in the wake of a single nail.

“And now we are even, no?” Leliana’s voice was syrup when she finally decided to up the intensity of their game. “I have always imagined that night you two shared and what it might have been like to join you.” Her hands artfully traced ticklish designs over both women’s thighs, muscles clenching and shivering beneath her fingers. “And during the months you visited her in the Fade! Always regaling me next morning with how radiant she looks, how beautiful she is as your child grows—,”

“How impulsive her passions became towards the end,” Neria interrupted, tossing the witch a salacious wink. The pink hue on her cheeks was growing darker, matching the deepening swirls that swallowed the color of her eyes.

 “She was positively cruel, Morrigan.” Leliana’s practiced pout could fell an army. “She gloried in setting me afire with those visions. That was true envy, my love.” She deliberately grazed her fingers over the tender skin where leg met hip, lips turning up in delight at twin sighs, “But now you can make it up to me.”

“Oh?” The Warden and Morrigan exchanged a glance, intrigue dancing between their electric gaze. Neria leaned towards the bard and laced her tone with honey, “Just what did you have in mind?”

“Something like this?”  Morrigan’s finger trailed up the elf’s throat, catching under her chin and luring her in for a gentle kiss. The first in ten years and barely even the beginning of a promise before she pulled away.

“Or more like this?” Neria’s hand shot out and caught the back of Morrigan’s neck, keeping her close to capture her lips again. Deeper this time and more thorough, breath quickening as the erstwhile lovers grew reacquainted.

Leliana slid from between them, delighted by how quickly the Warden drew Morrigan into her arms.  Whatever had languished between them all these years was reignited the instant skin touched skin. Leliana settled behind the witch, molding against her back and dragging her hands up a toned belly in exactly the way she knew made Morrigan melt. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the kiss. The loveliness of Neria’s fluttering lashes, the quiet desperation of Morrigan’s hand clinging to a naked shoulder, the wet and breathy sounds passing between their lips. The growing heat of it had excitement pooling in her belly, trickling towards her thighs.

“Maker, you are sinful together,” Leliana breathed in awe. Her fingers turned Morrigan to capture her mouth the moment Neria broke away, savoring the moan that poured across her tongue and giving the witch no choice but to surrender to the relentless dual seduction.

The bard had enjoyed many sexual adventures with multiple partners sharing each other, but none had ever set fire to her blood as quickly as the sight of these two women together. Her mates touching one another sent ideas racing through her head faster than the hammering pulse in her veins. Neria’s hands played over the both of them, wandering with distracted urgency; here a palm squeezing the swell of Leliana’s backside and tugging her close, then a deep gasp stealing Morrigan’s breath while fingers circled her breasts and toyed with the stiff peaks. The witch had one hand buried in the tumult of Leliana’s hair, hanging onto the anchor of their kiss as her body undulated between warring pleasures.

Greedy as she was for the soft, choked sounds and small sighs Morrigan offered so readily into their kiss, the desire sinking hooks into the pit of Leliana’s belly demanded more. She hit her threshold of impatience and released the witch’s lips with a groan, apologizing in small kisses scattered over her cheeks until she reached an ear.

“I want to see you.” Leliana caught the sensitive lobe between her teeth, earning a lovely shiver down the apostate’s spine. A firm grip on the woman’s waist subtly guided her to rise.

The Warden didn’t give Morrigan time to breathe, mouth fastening to her throat and searing a trail. Neria’s lips left a livid mark for every breathless moan she tore free. A hand on the apostate’s hip urged her to turn. She faced Leliana and straddled her legs, letting the bard see the perfection of Morrigan’s body arching back against Neria when the Warden’s hands cupped under her breasts.

That dark mouth falling open over shallow pants was the temptation of demons and Leliana pressed two fingers against a pouting lip. Morrigan’s eyes were embers when they opened, gazing at the bard through thick lashes before sucking her fingers in. Surana’s astonished curse made the spymaster’s smile turn wicked with pride. Their Warden had no idea just how well she and Morrigan had learned each other by now. Leliana watched the apostate’s eyes fall shut as she wet her lover’s fingers, humming in anticipation. She played her tongue over and in-between, deftly licking the entire length of each digit and suckling at the tips; a deliberate reminder of _all_ her skills that made Leliana’s breath hitch as she struggled to hold still.

“Wet enough, chère,” the redhead’s dulcet voice threatened to crack. She teased her moistened fingers through Morrigan’s folds. “And so are you,” she purred at the feel of soaked warmth already rushing to welcome her touch.

Over the witch’s shoulder she spied Neria’s dark gaze, lust-blown and hungry. The elf stared at the movement of Leliana’s hand like a starved animal catching the first scent of a feast. It was either a very generous or very cruel streak that pulled her hand away from Morrigan’s sex, offering her fingers coated in arousal to the Warden’s lips. A tiny, choked moan escaped Neria at the taste, eyes fluttering shut to relish more completely the flavor on her tongue.

Morrigan turned just enough to watch the lascivious display, lips falling open in a shape of tortured fascination. When the witch’s tongue darted out, quick and pink across the dark of her mouth, Leliana felt the knot in her stomach tighten even more.

The ardor of Neria’s mouth seemed determined to suck every scant drop from her fingers and the bard had to pull free with a wet pop. She didn’t have the patience to tease anymore tonight. There was no time in the Fade and no certainty of how long they could all be together. She deliberately parted slick folds, moaning at the wetness that spilled over her fingers. Leliana’s heart raced, determined to wrest every shivering gasp she could from both her loves. So little time to carve memories, she wanted only to know their three voices twined together in wanton melody.

Thrusting two fingers into Morrigan earned her the first note, a broken gasp from the apostate’s lips. Clinging heat clutched at her fingers, trying to draw her in deeper. Leliana watched her lover rise to her touch, hips rolling in time with curling strokes. She’d never tire of seeing the woman’s body like this. The smooth muscle coiled and flowing, supple power concealed in Morrigan’s sinuous frame. It was even better with Neria behind the witch, framed in the glow of the campfire like something from another realm.  The Warden showered affections over Morrigan’s skin. Hands caressed her breasts, teasing her nipples, exploring the clenched plane of her belly. Surana’s lips pressed open-mouth kisses and grazing bites everywhere she could reach, each making the witch’s silky heat shudder and clasp around the fingers stroking inside her. All the while the elf’s lustrous, adoring eyes stayed locked on Leliana.

The bard used her free hand to pull Neria to her. They kissed across Morrigan’s shoulder before capturing the witch’s lips as well, taking turns stealing her moans for their treasure. Their mate. A thrill raced down Leliana’s spine, seeing the same possessive gleam in Neria’s gaze. Morrigan was theirs. Surana’s hand stole down the witch’s shivering stomach, a sudden gasp and buck of her hips announcing when elf had found her target.

“You never were one to be left out, no?” Leliana teased, speeding her thrusts to match the urgency of Morrigan’s rippling inner walls. Even after all this time the Warden knew exactly how to augment her touch, how to read her thoughts and take one wicked step further.

“You can’t have all the fun,” Neria’s murmured reply was mostly buried against the apostate’s neck, kissing and nipping over sensitive skin in time with her  swirling fingers coaxing Morrigan to the edge.

The witch’s head lolled back, resting on Surana’s shoulder and letting her throat arc into a delectable line that Leliana couldn’t resist. She fastened her lips on the racing pulse point, moaning at the tempting hints of scent that tickled her tongue and drew her further down. Metal and lightning, flooded forests and a kiss of fire. The scar was raised but smooth under her tongue, filling Leliana with the same primal surge of pride and desire that had twisted in her chest the moment her teeth broke skin. Morrigan’s fingers tangled in her hair, holding the bard in place while soft encouragements whispered between her panting breaths.

A higher keen broke from the apostate’s throat and Leliana knew—from that sound and the sodden, clinging flesh that clamped even tighter on her fingers—she knew that Neria was lavishing the same worship on the other side. The bard angled her fingers, hooking into the fullest spot on her lover’s front wall and setting her teeth against skin.

The overwhelming attention from both mates was too much. Morrigan’s body pulled tight, shuddering between the lovers holding her in place while she unraveled with a bursting groan. Soaked muscles rippled and clenched, sending a flood of fragrant arousal down the bard’s knuckles and into her palm. Leliana and Neria both eased the trembling witch through her aftershocks, slow strokes and tender kisses guiding her across the waves and back into their arms.

They stayed woven around each other, basking in the glow of shared passions. There were nights Leliana stayed buried in that slick warmth for as long as Morrigan could bear, savoring the feel of being joined in such a simple, profound intimacy. But a hand circled her wrist and the bard reluctantly let her fingers be pulled away, rewarded with the sight of Neria drawing them to her mouth to lick clean.

Maker, the woman knew exactly how to stoke a fire! That it wasn’t even a deliberately seductive plot, merely the Warden greedily taking her own desire, made it all the more exciting. Leliana bit her lip, holding back a whimper as Surana’s tongue painstakingly swept over every inch of her fingers and sucked them dry.

The display wasn’t lost on Morrigan either. The witch’s nostrils flared ever so slightly, fighting to slow her shallow breath. Leliana felt her heart spike, a clench of her thighs trying to ease the doubled pressure in her core. Morrigan was never easily sated, and took pleasure the way she took a challenge.

An unholy spark lit that golden gaze and she surged forward to catch Leliana’s lips. A groan rolled off the redhead’s tongue as she felt her lover take thorough claim of her mouth, too fierce for her to do anything other than lay back and be ravished. Morrigan pressed her to the ground, a surge of dominance that always made her resist for a moment before surrendering to even sweeter demand. Sure hands spreading her legs told Leliana exactly what the apostate intended and she felt a fresh stream of arousal trickle between her thighs.

Pleasuring Morrigan had left the bard’s body strained with want. She was already squirming on the bedroll, too needy to be still while the witch’s mouth trailed down her belly. It felt like fever all over again, the ache to be consumed. Her words stumbled and rasped off her tongue at the first gust of breath against her swollen folds. “Yes, yes, please _yes.”_

Morrigan’s tongue on her felt like fire, long licks and darting swipes dragging her hips to rock against the apostate’s mouth. The hooks twisting her insides were wound tight enough to burst and the bard bit her hand, determined to hold back the too soon, too powerful moan building in her throat. Slips of heat chased up her spine, spreading along every nerve to curl fingers and toes as she tensed to capture that elusive, melting flame.

A brief pause nearly made her scream and Leliana’s eyes snapped open; just in time to see the Warden behind Morrigan, sinking two fingers into the kneeling apostate. A long sound of pleasure rolled on the witch’s tongue, sending the vibration straight into Leliana’s core and she couldn’t keep her eyes open, head falling back with a groan.

Morrigan’s mouth on her flesh moved with a more distinct rhythm, circles and plunges timed between muffled gasps the Warden’s fingers coaxed out. The night air was full of the heavy scent of lust, slick sounds drowning out all other noise except for ragged breath and blood hammering in her ears. Morrigan’s tongue was torturing the ring of her entrance; thrusting inside to plunder her taste, then slipping away to swipe up her folds and tease the stiff bud that made even more wetness spill free.

Fingers dug into Leliana’s hips, gripping her like an anchor and she knew Neria was increasing her assault, driving the witch towards distraction. A giddy smile tugged at the bard’s panting mouth; Surana had no idea just how stubborn Morrigan could be. Lips and tongue redoubled their efforts, making Leliana writhe helplessly in the throes of her body trying to rush forward and pull away all at once. She caught hold of raven tresses, shamelessly rocking against all of Morrigan’s face as the sizzling blood in her veins shot sparks. Determined lips captured the twitching nub that pounded as fast as Leliana’s heart and with a hard suck the bard felt stars exploding behind her eyes.

Her hands coiled in Morrigan’s hair, the heat from between her thighs washing through the fire of her belly and bursting from her chest in an excruciating, liberating cry. Leliana only realized she’d arched off the ground when she collapsed back to the bedroll, panting and boneless as the tremors released her.

The Fade was surreal at the best of times, and even more when seen through the haze of an afterglow. But when the redhead lazily opened her eyes she knew no demon could’ve invented the sight before her. Morrigan’s cheek rested on the bard’s stomach, her mouth and chin glistening with Leliana’s release. The witch’s eyes were screwed shut, small gasps tickling sensitive skin in time with Neria’s fingers curling inside her. The Warden herself was wholly absorbed in Morrigan’s body, kissing down the small of her spine and breath ragged with her lover’s excitement.

Leliana reached down combed strands of sweat dampened hair away from the witch’s face. There was a frustrated clench to Morrigan’s jaw, desperation in the way her fingers fisted the bedroll. Her hips rocked back against Surana’s thrusts with an urgency that the bard knew all too well. There were sounds choking in her throat, unwilling to be freed.

“More, chere?” The spymaster softly supplied the words she knew her lover was struggling to contain. A quiver that shook the witch’s whole body answered her with a loud moan. Leliana nodded, even though she knew the woman couldn’t see. She also couldn’t see the sinful smile teasing up the bard’s lips in time with her thoughts. The first climax had taken the edge off her lust but she could feel it swiftly climbing to new peaks.

“Wait, my love,” Leliana’s lilting voice offered both comfort and command.

Her eyes found Neria’s, silently telling her to still. The Warden’s confusion didn’t stop her from obeying, despite the anguish contorting her brow as she fought with herself. A strangled note of complaint fell from Morrigan when the elf pulled her fingers free and Surana groaned, biting her lip while she waited for one of her lovers to explain. The trust in her face was almost as endearing as her impatience. Leliana deftly hooked a leg over Morrigan’s hip and flipped their positions, making the witch curse when her back hit the ground.

“She needs more,” the bard supplied the simple answer over her shoulder with a wicked glint flashing in her eyes. She stroked the witch’s cheek with the back of her hand, thumb brushing over dark, parted lips in a silent promise that calmed the woman’s angry rumble to an impatient whine. With a quick twist that would’ve made Rivaini acrobats jealous, Leliana reversed herself on Morrigan’s hips to face the Warden. A coy smile played on her lips. “I think there is a way to give her what she wants, no?”

If her suggestion wasn’t obvious in the dripping honey of her voice, it was clear when her fingers stroked down Neria’s toned belly to slide between her thighs. The Warden’s breath hitched at the first brush of Leliana’s fingers against the jewel standing so stiff and hard amidst soft flesh. A pang of guilt fluttered in the bard’s ribs. She and Morrigan had both been taken care of while their mate agonized in need. She drew the elf to her, offering apologies and promises in a sultry kiss. Leliana drank in her alpha’s stifled moans each time fingers swirled and played over that aching nub. It twitched beneath her touch, throbbing harder and deeper and fuller, swelling into her hand. The thick length felt hot against her palm, rapidly growing until it was more than she could hold.

“That should do the trick,” Leliana purred, a slow stroke enjoying the pulse of her lover’s cock before teasing a finger over the weeping tip.

She eased herself to Morrigan’s side, one hand trailing over the witch’s squirming body to soothe the shivers of anticipation. The bard had watched herself taken by both her lovers, and she had seen the beauty of their bodies when they opened for her taking. She had never seen them together. Her heart slowed to painful silence, spellbound by the sight of Neria easing into Morrigan’s tight flesh. The breathless stutters from the Warden as she kept her hips patient, the way the witch’s back arched and lips parted on a needy sound; Leliana hadn’t known it was possible to feel such a surge of dizzying pleasure without even being touched.

A hand caught the bard’s chin, dragging Leliana down to Morrigan’s hungry mouth for a kiss. The apostate’s fingers threaded in her hair, clenching in time with the roll of her body as it opened to let the Warden reach her depths. The spymaster darted her tongue past her lover’s lips, matching the rhythm of tremors racing through Morrigan on every thrust.  Only when the witch couldn’t contain the gasps building in her throat did Leliana let her lips fall away.

Her eyes hungrily soaked in the sight of her mates coupling. The Warden had both hands gripping the curve of Morrigan’s backside, firelight catching on sinuous muscles lifting the witch to meet her thrusts. Neria’s skin glistened in a sheen of sweat and her brow was furrowed, jaw tight with the effort of chasing the other woman’s need and not her own. A glow of pride bloomed in Leliana’s ribs, laced with bemused affection. Even in the throes of passion the Hero couldn’t stop being selfless to the point of punishment.

Fortunately, the alpha’s mate knew exactly how to be selfish for both of them.  The insistent caress of her hands over Neria’s shoulders and back urged the Warden closer to their apostate. Morrigan’s legs immediately hooked around the elf’s waist, shifting the angle and joining her voice to Neria’s in a groan when the next thrust reached even deeper. Leliana could easily forget herself while absorbing every detail of the two lost in each other, trading kisses and blasphemy while they moved as one; but the melting desire trickling from her core had louder demands.

Shaping the Fade would never come naturally to anyone without magic, but over many years the Warden had taught her a handful of tricks. None of which had been intended for use such as this. The corner of Leliana’s lip twitched into a wicked smile. Torture though it was not to watch the carnal display of need and emotion before her, Leliana closed her eyes and concentrated. She gathered the threads of her senses; the taste of lust and sweat and Morrigan on her tongue, Neria’s labored panting breath, the slap of skin on skin interspersed with short, sharp sounds that were nearly pain. That rhythm; Leliana focused, clinging to it, feeling the way each thrust and moan made her core shudder and ache. Leliana gasped at the sensation of nothingness suddenly filled to overflowing, her inner muscles clamping down in shock around the thick shaft spreading her open.

Her eyes opened hesitantly, letting out a deep breath at seeing the familiar toy jutting from between her thighs. Relief turned quickly to pride and excitement, playing her fingers over the length and relishing the pulse of need that rushed from inside her clear to the blushing tip. It was usually Neria that summoned the phallus for them to enjoy and Leliana wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or lust that made it seem bigger than before. There was something positively unholy in the thrill that raced down her spine just looking at it.

Slipping behind the Warden Leliana knelt just close enough to drag her tip through Neria’s soaking folds. The elf’s rhythm stuttered, her whole body going tense with surprise. The swell of her sex was silky and slippery wet, coating the flared head in a surge of arousal the moment it bumped her entrance. Just the feel of that sticky excitement trickling over her straining flesh made Leliana’s gut clench for more.

“Maker, Leliana, how did you—?” Neria’s breathless question shattered on her tongue when the bard pushed in.

The elf’s spine arched, head thrown back in a keening moan at the feel of Leliana’s thickness parting her open. Velvety muscles blossomed deliciously on all sides of the bard, drawing her in with ecstatic flutters and unbearable, clasping heat. She sank into the alpha until her hips were flush against skin, her whole body glorying in the victory of being sheathed in that decadent, quivering flesh. The milking pressure of Neria’s core was nearly painful and the bard had to freeze. She wrapped her arms tight around her lover’s waist to hold them both still so she could adjust; so both of them could adjust. Leliana could feel Neria trembling beneath her, gasping out a litany of desperate curses that confessed how close she was to losing control.

A deep roll of her hips made both Surana and the woman pinned beneath her moan. Leliana leaned forward to scatter kisses over the elf’s neck, waiting to hear permission. It came in a low groan, Neria’s hips rocking back against her in silent plea. Inner walls clenched like a vice around Leliana’s shaft, dragging her forward when the alpha thrust greedily back into Morrigan again. The erratic rhythm was push and pull at the same time, torn between two pleasures and unable to decide. The bard felt a whimper of complaint break past her lips, answered by the apostate’s own sound of frustration.

Leliana reached past the Warden, a clumsy brush of her fingers urging Morrigan’s eyes to open. The gold of her gaze had all but vanished to a rim of fire around swirling black and the bard felt the pressure in her cock give a heavy pulse as she was drawn into such passionate depths. A silent question passed between them and Morrigan answered with an urgent nod, raising her knees higher to wrap her legs around Leliana and keep their alpha trapped tightly between them.Neria’s hands fisted tighter in the bedroll, thrashing but held too close to move. The bard planted her own grip on either side of Morrigan, effectively caging the writhing elf.

Leliana drew back, selfishly enjoying the Warden’s broken protest before snapping her hips forward again and tearing tortured delight from all three. She fell into a rapid rhythm, the pressure pulsing in her length too heavy to hold long. Each deep thrust forced the alpha’s hips into Morrigan, the harmony of their arching cries filling Leliana with a sense of infinite. Greed and ego luxuriated in the unraveling desire in her core, swollen on the high of pleasuring both her lovers at once.

Her arms were stinging with the effort of holding herself up, her entire body growing loud with complaints as she dragged every muscle into the force of driving her mates past the brink. She knew Neria was strong enough to hold them both but she wouldn’t surrender this intoxicating control. Slips of fire in the pit of her belly were spilling from her cock with each excruciating thrust, the pounding heat threatening to burst free.  

“Fuck, Leli, don’t stop,” Neria’s moans were buried against Morrigan’s shoulder, breaking apart in shudders each time Leliana plunged in to the hilt. “Maker, feels so good, both of you.”

Morrigan was no quieter but words had shattered from her mind, the only sounds parting her lips a chorus of breathless cries rising towards the perfect note. Her fingernails raked marks over Leliana’s shoulders, heels digging into her back to drag both lovers over the precipice of her own need.

The clinging velvet wrapped around Leliana suddenly bore down with a pressure that made tears creep into her eyes. A long note climbed from Neria’s depths as her body coiled into trembling iron and burst apart. Morrigan’s back arched, her voice vanishing in a silent scream as the Warden filled her to overflowing, the mix of release spilling back down her thighs. The pounding demand in Leliana’s core exploded like the relief of her own keening sound, molten desire flooding from her core and erupting from her cock in thick streams, painting her lover’s quivering inner walls.

Leliana’s mouth hung open over a torrent of moans, broken by the jerk of her hips emptying herself into rippling demand, Neria’s walls milking her dry. She felt the woman beneath her shaking, strength unable to withstand the crash of bliss, and the bard managed to force herself back. Her cock slipped free of the Warden’s clasping muscles and she dropped to the ground, stomach clenching with the surges that kept gushing molten arousal to trickle down her length.

She lay panting, her whole body wracked with tremors that lessened with each twitch of her shaft. The pressure in her core was finally draining in the release that splashed back over her skin. Leliana stared at the night sky overhead, her vision fuzzy, wondering if it was her or one of her lovers making the stars dance. A giddy chuckle rolled off her tongue, floating in the haze of soaring pride and sated lust. Whatever demon had possessed her was curled happily in her belly now, purring with contentment at the greed and power that had driven her to shamelessly claim both her loves.

_My mates._ Leliana’s heart skipped a beat, staggered by the simple but indescribable emotion that filled her breath.  Neria, with her brazen confidence and bright laugh that could trick the whole world into following her for a smile. Morrigan, whose sharp words and dark eyes threatened as often as seduced, yet lured willing victims into the depths of her mysteries. _Mine._ The bard’s lips spread into a smile that should’ve been triumph but was too grateful to be anything other than reverence.  She would’ve offered a prayer of thanks if her mind weren’t too fractured to remember the right words. They had both chosen her and she could barely contain the emotions that threatened to break her ribs into pieces.

“I have you, little bird.” Steady hands and a rich voice enfolded her in security, giving Leliana permission to let free a sob of relief. She turned into Morrigan’s embrace, tucking her face into the witch’s chest and breathed deep until the calming scent eased the intensity rending her soul. The apostate’s strength felt weaker, her body languid as she cradled her trembling mate. Lips pressed kisses over the bard’s hair and down towards her cheeks, luring her to ease.

“I need you,” Leliana confessed, uncertain of anything beyond the hollow in her soul that cried to be filled by her mates.

“We’re here, Leliana, both of us,” Neria’s gentle tones washed over her ear with the warmth of a sigh. She was vaguely aware that they were on either side of her now, enveloping her in a tangle of limbs like a nest.

“Please,” Leliana rolled over, trying to focus on the Warden through a blur of wet emotion she couldn’t explain. “Please, mes chers, I need you both.”

“Whatever you want, my love,” Neria promised with a gentle kiss that was so achingly sweet it pulled Leliana’s tears down her cheeks. The Warden looked up at Morrigan, confessing the barest hint of helplessness. She had eased Leliana through heats but never faced the frustration of this nameless demand in her mate.

“Can you still hold a woman in your arms while taking her?” Morrigan’s inquiry to the Hero was laced with twin daggers of invitation and challenge. Leliana’s crippled mind staggered over the words, stuck on the image conjured.

“Of course,” Neria’s answer shot back with a flash of pride, then gentled into a seductively dulcet tone. “But your help would make it better.”

“Then I think ‘tis time we took care of our lovely omega, don’t you?” Morrigan’s warmth drew away from Leliana and she groaned in complaint. The protest only grew louder when a hand pulled the spent toy from between her legs, the sucking sound echoing the pit of want in her core.

“Patience, Leli, we’ve got you,” the Warden assured as she scattered kisses all over her lover’s face.

Commanding hands dragged the bard to her knees, pulling her flush against the alpha’s body and she whined at the feel of the cock grinding at the apex of her thighs. Neria’s hand slid from the flare of her hip down to one knee, tugging the omega’s leg to hook over her waist and Leliana felt her folds spread against that straining shaft. Just the way the pressure of it throbbed along her sex felt like the beginning of an answer. Leliana arched her spine, head falling back as she rocked forward, clinging to Neria’s shoulders and rolling her hips to chase the sparks that filled her each time that heavy swell grazed her pulsing bud.

A second set of hands stroked down her sides, pulling at her senses when they drifted to her spine and swept beneath the curve of her ass.  Morrigan deftly lifted the bard and Leliana instantly wrapped both legs around her Warden’s waist. The broad head of Neria’s cock dragged through her folds and the omega let free a breathless moan, her muscles clenching hungrily for the fullness she could almost taste.

“That’s it, little bird, that’s what you need.” One of Morrigan’s hands took hold of that straining shaft, stroking and guiding it right to her entrance.

A stream of arousal flooded over the broad head, welcoming her in. Leliana anchored her arms around Neria’s shoulders, biting back the noise rising from her throat as the alpha began to split her open. Her eager muscles flowered beautifully, spreading wide to let Neria sink in to the very hilt and the elf groaned against her shoulder when she was flush to Leliana’s hips. The omega’s lips fell open, gasping at the thick pressure pulsing inside her fluttering walls.

“Good?” Neria murmured against her ear, infuriatingly smug but the redhead couldn’t be bothered to care. A jog of the elf’s hips seated that straining shaft as deep as it could reach and tore the sound from Leliana’s tongue.

“Hold still,” Morrigan’s sultry voice scorched over her ear, speaking either to her or Neria or both of them together.  A deliberate finger slid beneath her, gathering the nectar from where the alpha’s cock was sheathed and then traveling further back until it probed against the pucker that quivered at her touch.

_Mother Above, preserve me._ Leliana shuddered when that finger pushed in, slowly massaging her straining walls until the clench of them eased and accepted the witch even deeper. That small stretch made her feel so much fuller, the want in her belly writhing to new whispers of more.

“Let me have you, Leliana,” the murmur followed kisses over her shoulder, making the bard shiver. Another finger joined the first, twisting and scissoring to spread her open. With just those careful thrusts Leliana could feel her body coiling into knots of anticipation.

“Now, Morrigan,” the redhead choked on her own demand, inner muscles clutching riotously at shaft and fingers and desperate to give herself over completely.

Soft lips pressed one final assurance against her shoulder and the witch’s fingers withdrew. Leliana didn’t have a moment to complain before the broad head of a cock was pressed to that same entrance. The omega bit her lip, warring with herself to stay still as that thick flesh pushed past the tight ring. The stretch was unlike anything she’d ever felt, her inner walls quaking and bearing down to both drive away and drag in the pressure of both her lovers filling her at once.

“Fuck, Morrigan, I can _feel_ you,” Neria panted against Leliana’s neck, her mouth catching strands of red hair across her lips. The alpha was struggling not to move, to keep her mate securely wrapped in strength while their bodies trembled in the expectation of being completely joined. Then there was a moment of perfect stillness, silence rolling over all three of them with a gasp when Morrigan’s hips met the firm flesh of Leliana’s ass.

“Leli?” Neria’s voice was strained, supplying the only sound that any of them seemed able to make.

“Maker’s breath, _yes,_ ” the strangled cry tore free from Leliana. Her hips writhed, rolling between the exquisite sensation of both her lovers splitting her apart. She’d never imagined being so full, feeling so complete as with both her mates slowly thrusting in time, the pleasure of one reaching her depths receding for only a heartbeat before the other drove spikes of excitement farther into her core.

_Holy Andraste, please, yes, don’t stop._ Leliana’s mouth fell open on words that couldn’t push past the groans in her chest. Her hands dug tightly into the hard muscle of Neria’s shoulders, head lolling back against Morrigan and muffling her sobbing cries into the apostate’s neck. Two sets of hands held her up, her body nothing more than debris on the waves rising up to swallow her whole.

“We have you, Leliana,” Morrigan’s luxuriant voice was a rasp against her cheek, velvet and fire licking over her skin. “You’re hers. Mine. Ours, little bird.”

“Ours,” Neria repeated with a hoarse breath, her mouth trailing hungry kisses over the bard’s shoulder. “Morrigan’s and mine. Our mate, Leli. All of you, forever.”

They were hers. With every word Morrigan and Neria whispered was the silent promise underneath. She belonged to them and they to her. Leliana could feel the pounding pressure in the shafts splitting her apart, pulsing in the confines of her inner walls, straining for release. She squeezed as much as she could, too full to do more than quiver her muscles around the thick lengths. The greed inside her was ravenous for release, theirs as much as her own; to feel both of them fill her until her inner walls threatened to burst.

The sharp scrape of teeth sent lightning into her nerves, not from one shoulder but both. Neria and Morrigan’s mouths found their respective marks, a decade versus days but each throbbing so violently that the barest brush of lips made her scream. The reminder, the promise of being possessed heart and soul the same way her body was being taken, was more than Leliana could bear. Her voice tore at the heavens with a broken song, exultant and shattering with the quakes that erupted from her core. 

Every sinew of her body wound tight in pulses, squeezing down mercilessly on the twin cocks splitting her wide and a duet of excruciating moans joined her in the air. Both shafts swelled with an impossible pressure and finally spilled over. Thick streams of heat surged into her depths with every jerk of their hips and stuttered groan buried against her skin, each splash carrying her further along the crest that swept her away.

The omega’s soul drifted like ether for a timeless eternity, floating along the waves of bliss that rose and fell with the echoing breath and heartbeats of the lovers holding her on either side. Gradually she felt heavy with the weight of her limbs, the deliciously weary fatigue of her muscles drawing her back to flesh in all its glorious, aching bliss.

Morrigan’s lips were the first to offer apology, warning her and waiting for permission. Leliana offered the barest of nods, too spent to form words. She braced herself for the sting of the witch’s shaft pulling free but there was only a split second of tingling and her tight passage went from full to empty. _Fade._ Leliana remembered, groaning as much in protest as relief.  Everything felt so real, so exact; it took effort to believe it was barely more than the best kind of dream.

The Warden slid out of her clinging muscles the way she always did, leaving the omega hollow but sated. Neria and Morrigan laid her down gently, staying tangled around their mate like an intricately woven tapestry. She rolled to her back, wincing momentarily at the soreness that felt altogether real, and drew both lovers close. She kissed one and then the other, the taste of their shared pleasures mingling on her tongue until she couldn’t differentiate any apart.

“We can’t stay, my love.” Morrigan’s hand stroked down Leliana’s cheek, sadly confirming what she already knew. Even in the depths of sleep she could feel exhaustion threatening to steal her away and the world around them turning pale.

“You will find us again?” The words were more command than question as they crept past her lips, eyes locked onto the Warden with a silent plea.

“Always,” Neria’s promise breathed back, her throaty voice already becoming a whisper as she began to fade. The Warden raised on one elbow to lean past her and take Morrigan’s lips in a final kiss. Then  she returned to Leliana, lingering against her mouth to savor each last, shared breath until the Void swallowed them all.

0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0          0

Morrigan woke with Leliana wrapped tightly in her arms, their hearts both still beating a staccato dance from the excitement Beyond. The bard roused slowly, a mournful note rolling in her chest at the emptiness on one side.

“She’s gone,” Leliana murmured sadly, tucking herself even further into the cradling warmth of the witch’s embrace. Morrigan thought of pointing out that Neria had never been here to begin with, that it was only their bond creating a bridge across the Fade. The truth halted on her tongue, too harsh for these early morning hours and the fierce tenderness in her chest that demanded she protect the bard from all pain.

“She’s never far.” In the certainty beating beneath her ribs, Morrigan was learning that answers—like magic—had many forms. That stubborn, charming, brash and achingly irresistible elf was simply a truth of a different shape. One that would never be denied.

“Do you think she’ll return soon?” The bard’s voice was small, letting free the weakness that no one else every saw; the longing buried deep beneath her secrets and armor. Morrigan wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the feeling of fragile power that pressed against her heart whenever Leliana let her see this hidden part of her, the romantic Chantry girl that still dwelled under a spymaster’s cold shadow and cowl.

“Nothing stops that woman,” Morrigan shook her head, a chuckle warming her tone. She pressed a kiss to the top of Leliana’s head, the first confession of emotion she’d ever let herself share with the bard and one that still made her breath swell. “I blocked her in the Fade and she found me on foot. I sent her away and she chased me with you. Archdemons and blights and your almighty Maker himself could not keep her from what she wants. And she will always want you.”

“Us,” Leliana sleepily corrected, momentarily unfurling her body in a languid stretch and then coiling comfortably around Morrigan once more. She was rather like a clingy cat. Or a very warm and lovable octopus, perhaps.

“Us,” the witch amended with a smile, accepting the capturing embrace. Seeing the Warden once more in the Fade had only confirmed everything she’d suspected and denied within herself for ten torturous years. Neria had her heart just like Leliana. They possessed her not with chains and demands but with the promise of passion that would never hold her back, only help her find her way. She had never known tethers could make her feel free.

The alpha and omega chose her not out of instinct or nature, but with the purest emotion she had ever known. In Kieran’s trust, Leliana’s adoration and Neria’s devotion binding them all together, Morrigan found the love that was unbreakable. They were hers, she theirs, and all of them one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, I couldn't say no. Once the chapter started it sort of got away from me. But hopefully only in all the best ways. 
> 
> -I'm sure some of you were expecting to see the Warden reunited with Leliana and Morrigan in person but that would have to wait until after the game. I figure if Somniari like Feynriel and Felassan can travel and meet others in the Fade, my dalish mage Warden can do the same. With bonuses. Creative license and whatnot.
> 
> -Anyway, assuming you dear readers survived the entire chapter, please let me know what you thought. It has to be longest piece of sin I've ever done without a break so I'd love to hear opinions. 
> 
> -Also, I edited twice but that's no guarantee I didn't miss mistakes so please let me know if you see any.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't done any writing in almost a year and it feels rusty to be coming back.  
> I really hope I can give these characters the attention they deserve and a story that suits them.  
> Please let me know if anyone seems OoC (beyond the obvious ABO behavior discrepancies).  
> Otherwise, R&R if you have any thoughts!


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